


admirable

by psychedaleka



Series: the same ruinous path [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (just for the epilogue though), Betrayal, Blasphemy, Destruction of the Lamps, M/M, POV Second Person, POV Third Person, Seduction, Slow Dancing, The Seduction of Mairon, Unreliable Narrator, Various OCs for flavour, Years of the Lamps
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:08:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 37,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24930547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychedaleka/pseuds/psychedaleka
Summary: “How admirable,” Aulë says, as he watches you work.Admirable.Mairon.It becomes your name, and you—Mairon—try desperately not to think of how much it sounds like an insult.The seduction of Mairon and beyond.
Relationships: Aulë | Mahal & Sauron | Mairon, Eönwë & Sauron | Mairon, Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor/Sauron | Mairon
Series: the same ruinous path [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1965877
Comments: 94
Kudos: 186





	1. Of a smith

You come to Arda with the knowledge that you are Aulë’s.

You are meant for him.

Your song sings in tune with his, the comforting rhythm of drums like hammers, like bedrock, keeping time for the orchestra.

By the time you arrive, much of the world is already shaped, dotted in mountains and plains and rivers and seas. Your fellow maiar play still, under the stars, sparse as they are for Varda has not kindled them all.

They tell you, they who were here before you, of great battles and turmoil, of mountains raised and oceans spilled. They tell you of the Dark Lord, banished and gone mad at the edge of the world, and you are afraid.

There is no work to be done, or, at least, none you are capable of doing. Soon there will be, but you do not know that, not yet. You cannot raise mountains, nor delve deep into the earth of your own power. You are not Eönwë, who shines with radiance, nor Curumo, your lord’s favoured. You are simply one of many, nameless, a servant for your master.

It should be enough.

It is not.

You watch your peers sing hymns of praise, and for a time you sing with them, sing themes of rock and stone, of iron and gold and granite.

And you are not content.

You watch as, in the distance, craftsmaiar, the ones deemed skilled enough to help, shape a mountain, delving caves and rocky outcrops, and you feel—you feel—

There are no words, no song to describe that which grows inside you, a yearning to be one of them.

You want to be one of them.

The realization is unpleasant, and you push it away, reject it.

It is wrong.

Ainur do not—should not—desire the place of another, for to do so is to reject what Eru has given. What Eru has ordained.

It would be rebellion.

And so the want grows inside you, slowly, quietly, and you are ashamed.

You follow your lord, sing hymns of praise as you watch him work. This, at least, is not wrong, for there are many of your peers who do the same, though they come because they are dutiful, because they adore their lord. You tell yourself you are the same, that it is adoration that fills your soul as you watch him work, but you know it is not.

It is not adoration that drives you to commit his songs to memory, to sing them on your own when your lord dismisses you to rest.

You find a secluded corner, far from the others, where no one can hear your shame, and you sing. Your voice is faulty, at first, weak, nothing like the rich strength of your lord. But as time passes, and the mountains and valleys are all built, your voice grows stronger, and rock finally obeys you.

You build a hill, with great difficulty. It is asymmetrical and lumpy and nothing like the work of your lord, but it is yours.

Yours.

It pleases you, to have something for your own, to possess something. You know it cannot be wrong, for it brings you joy and all joy is holy—so says your lord.

But when a sibling of yours—Statholië, you believe her name to be—tells your lord, in a panic, of a new work of the Dark Lord, of a hill raised on the edge of the world, you are not so sure, for it is your hill and not an abomination. But you do not speak of it.

You repeat the words of your peers— _ _what an ugly hill__ — _ _which twisted mind would have conceived it__ — _ _I’m so glad our lord destroyed it__ —and you contort your soul into shapes like them, of disgust and worry and fear.

Though you do not know, and will not know, not for an age, the meaning of your actions, you lie.

The image of your hill doesn’t leave your mind, and you dream of it—mine, mine, mine.

In later ages they will say it was the Enemy who taught you to lie. That is not true. Like so many other things, you taught yourself.

* * *

The Valar create an island in the middle of Arda, surrounded by water, and you are told to go there.

There is work, now, to be done—the Valar have need of places of dwelling, and the craftsmaiar—designers—innovators have thought of structures, tall and grand, to be built.

They are beautiful, at first, full of sweeping lines and curved arches, entirely symmetrical, but as you think of them, they become less so. They are inefficient, hundreds of rooms there for nothing but beauty, left empty for no use can be found, separating the useful rooms from the others.

You have time to think, as you create bricks of clay, stoking the fires as they dry. It is the same motion, over and over again—you had revelled in the feeling as Aulë first taught you the song, the technique, but not anymore—and you are bored.

You could do greater things than this, though you are not meant for it.

You are not one of the craftsmaiar, who can create such grand designs, who can see them in their mind. You can only see that which is in front of you, and that which you remember. Before you knew of clay, you would’ve said it was impossible, that you could not create like them—but now you have something malleable, something in front of you to see and to experiment.

You take small pieces of clay, and mold them with your body and your song. You are clumsy, at first, but you do not give up, and soon you have created a miniature replica of your lord’s building, yet to be created.

Anxious, for this was undertaken in secret, you show your lord.

He praises it, inspecting the model from all sides. He speaks of the useful possibilities, to share designs before they are built in full.

You are pleased, very pleased with your lord’s praise, and more so when he takes it, to show the others.

“Have you seen it?” another of your siblings exclaims, some time later. “The model.”

“Yes,” you reply, “I have.”

“It must’ve been Curumo who made it,” she says, “for no one else could be that innovative.”

You say nothing, but in your chest—for you now possess a physical body, like the others—there is a fire that will not be quenched.

You turn to experimenting, then, returning to your clay brick. What fire best suits clay? Blue hot or warm orange—and what of air? You run into failure upon failure, cracked and charred and brittle. You produce very little usable brick.

Curumo comes to visit you, and he stands, contemplating the pile of broken brick.

“It is not wise,” he says, clothed in fabric of the purest white, “to presume to know better than our lord. The method he showed is best. Continue to use that, and do not further experiment. It will only end in” —he kicks the brick—“failure.”

You watch him, you who is covered in mud and clay and soot, and he who dons pristine robes without a stain, and you imagine dragging him down with you, until he is covered in mud and filth and an endless want.

You return to your brickmaking, but you do not stop experimenting.

And when you succeed, you do not say a word.

* * *

Time passes, and Almaren is shaped, the hall of each Vala distinct but together.

You reside in the hall of your lord, in the barracks. The ceilings are a hundred feet high, and huge pillars are carved with intricate designs. You sleep in a corner, your wardrobe and bed tucked tight against the wall. You find it comforting, to sleep here surrounded on two sides with stone rather than your siblings.

You are but one of hundreds of smiths, hammers ringing as you create what the craftsmaiar design. It’s hard work, and never quite as rewarding as you would like, but you learn of stone and steel and gold, and you tell yourself it is enough, to be able to work with your lord’s creations, and to discover what it is that they hide.

It is not enough. You wish to bring to life your own.

Work does not occupy all your time, for the Valar have decreed that there is to be time to rest, and time to enjoy the beauty of the world. You spend time in Yavanna’s gardens, still barren, for it is quiet there, and you spend time upon Manwë’s mountains, for Eönwë is there, and you love him, as other maiar do. He is dutiful, obedient, trusted by his lord, and righteous, and what maia would not love him for it?

But you watch him change matter with his thoughts alone, and you long to do the same.

* * *

The halls are buzzing with noise when you enter. Immediately, you want to leave, to be away from your siblings, but you are accosted just inside the door.

“Have you heard?”

“No, I have not,” you answer, hoping it isn’t another wedding. 

“Lord Aulë is going to light the world!” the maia, a coppersmith, exclaims. “He’s asked all of us to contribute ideas.”

Your heart races uncontrollably. You dare not give voice to your thoughts.

“Oh?” you say, keeping your voice level.

“Aren’t you excited?” he pouts.

“Of course I am,” you say.

You spend much of your spare time working frantically on your design. Lamps, to light the world—they’ll need to hold fire, of Varda’s making, like her stars, and reach long enough that there is light in the whole world, and be strong so that they will not fall.

Your design is practical, efficient—clean lines and strong shapes, unadorned but, in your mind, indestructible. It is the first work you have designed yourself, and in the years that come you will realize the truth of its many flaws, but for now you are proud.

It is your greatest work, you think. No one will be able to make something better.

That is not true, and in due time you will come to know it as a first try, the scribbles of a child who does not know better, the stagger of a first step in the right direction. But you are young, still, naive, and so you place your whole sense of self upon that design, until rejecting it would mean rejecting __you__.

It is represented to Aulë, and subsequently dismissed.

It hurts.

In brief moments, your world is shattered. Everything you thought you knew of yourself—gone.

You are not the best, no—you are nowhere near good. Your thoughts, your innovations are not worth so much as a second glance. Your lord does not believe you capable of improving, no, he does not give you advice nor critique for improvement.

You are but a smith, one of hundreds. You are not unique.

Your hill, your model, your brick, your design—all of it child’s play. Your thoughts are mere delusions of grandeur—you will never be Eönwë; you will never rival him in power.

You are one of many, nameless, not important enough to be individual.

You are not enough.

You are not enough.

* * *

For a brief period of time, you do not go back to your work.

They mock you, your tools, for wielded in imperfect hands they can only create imperfect things.

They mock you, your peers. No, they never say anything, never cast you strange glances or unwelcome words but their presence mocks you.

You envy them, their joy and their peace. You envy them, who do not feel this desperate wild want clashing with an ugly truth: you are not enough.

How can they be content, to forge shovels and chairs all day? How can they be content, to know that they will never be known, they will never be anything more than one of many?

You envy them, they who were not created wrong.

You go to Lady Estë, then, in the hopes that she might be able to heal you. Perhaps it is the Discord that touches you, that twists the knife inside your gut.

Lady Estë’s maiar ask you: “what is it that you feel?”

And you cannot bring yourself to tell them the truth, for fear they will cast you out, for fear they will call you evil. It is a new feeling, this awful realization that you are wrong, that they may no longer want you.

You say instead: “I am concerned that I cannot fulfill my purpose. My design for the lamps was rejected, and now I feel shame, that I am not sufficient.”

“It is only right that a greater maia would have that honour,” they say. “Do not be ashamed, for it is not your role.”

That does not comfort you, and they can tell.

They ask: “Did you sing the Discord?”

This, you tell the truth: “I did not.”

“Perhaps it touched you unwillingly,” one says. “We will see.”

You are overtaken, then, by panic, but you allow them to poke at you, to sing your song with you.

“There is nothing wrong,” they say, and you are glad that you could conceal this, that they do not know what it is that festers inside you.

You return to your lord’s halls and pick up your tools again. They cannot know you are anything but a loyal servant of your lord, and you hope that with enough time, these feelings will disappear, and you will be happy to forge table legs and window frames at another’s command.

You throw yourself into your work, the monotony of hammer strikes and sizzling metal.

* * *

The lamps, of Aulë’s design, will be made. They are complex, with thousands of parts ranging from huge sheets of metal to the smallest of gears.

You seize every opportunity to work on it, even the most simple of tasks.

You tell yourself it is because you wish to serve, because you wish to be useful.

And when the others are gone, you stare at the models, study the design of the parts and they way they fit together. You learn slowly how the lamps are built.

You work, long after your peers have gone out to enjoy the stars and water, long after the fires have dimmed and there is only you. You work until your fingers are numb and shoulders are sore, crafting hundreds of the most mundane pieces.

Aulë comes into the forge, once, when you are alone. He comes over to you, watches you work for a brief moment.

“Do you have a name?” he asks.

You shake your head, no.

“You’re a hard worker, aren’t you?”

You nod.

“How admirable,” Aulë says, as he watches you work.

Admirable.

Mairon.

It becomes your name, and you—Mairon—try desperately not to think of how much it sounds like an insult.

Your name—Mairon, you are Mairon now, Mairon the admirable—sends chants of __not enough, not enough__ up your spine.

You are not powerful, you are not clever, you are not creative.

You are simply admired, and for what? There is nothing special about you, no traits to be named.

But you have a name, and you tell yourself it is enough.

It is not.

* * *

The lamps are soon finished, and assembled. You are not there for that, no—that work is beyond you. But you are present for their kindling, as Varda fills them. And you look upon your lord’s creation.

~~~~It’s hideous.~~ ~~

You cannot allow yourself to think that.

They are beautiful, bright and wrought in fine metal. They tower, tall, over a stone base, illuminating the world. At last, there is light.

You enjoy it, the light, for a while, but it feels as though it worms its way into the darkest crevasses of your being, exposing everything you wish to hide.

Though the lamps are forged, there is still more work to be done.

You spend all our time in your lord’s halls. While the others rest, while they play, you remain in the forges, in the design room, working. You are not capable by nature, no, but you will learn. This you swear to yourself.

The craftsmaiar, constantly creating new and yet unimagined designs, leave their models and sketches out. Such is the way of your lord, so that everyone may work on a single task, that designs are the work of the many, that no knowledge is hidden, and that glory is shared by all.

You will admit it is useful, to be able to see them all. You look through their designs, memorizing them, copying them, learning from them.

And you create your own, at first a mishmash of others’ work, and eventually, the product of your imagination alone.

You keep them in notebooks, bound and hidden where none will find them. You will share your work in time, but you know there is still much to improve.

Slowly, as you work, you do begin to improve. If you cannot create matter with your song, you will find tools to aid you with it. If you cannot know the properties of a metal simply by examining it, you will memorize them, until you do know. If you cannot see what you are creating unless you have a guide, you will repeat the actions until you can do them while dreaming.

You are nowhere near where you wish to be, but you have all the time in the world. You do not care how long it takes, but you will become a great smith.

They come to you now, some of your fellow smiths. A few stragglers, one or two, come to you. They ask: “how do I make a fork,” “how do I make this alloy,” “how do I ensure this does not bend?”

You try to answer their questions, as best as you can, but they do not seem to comprehend. They do not seem to learn, and you do not know what to do.

You call it a failure, and vow to do better.

* * *

You do not have many friends.

You try not to spend time around those less capable than you, as there is nothing they could teach you. You do not spend time with those that have the same innate abilities as you, for you look at them and remember how weak you are.

You do not spend time with those who forge as well as you, since it appears to you that they look at you with disdain, that you do not have their power, that you take twice as long to make what they can.

And the best smiths, you can see them look strangely at you, like a challenging problem to solve, as though they cannot understand why you would so desperately strive for that which you should not be able to attain.

None of them understand what it is that drives you to push yourself, to work harder, to experiment with new things that no one would dream of using. None of them understand why you spend all your time inside, even when there are no requests for things to be made, instead of outside, playing, and enjoying the world.

They do not understand what drives you to create new tools, to adapt techniques of song into the physical world. They do not understand why you need to increase your own abilities. To them, the world as it is is perfect, crafted by their lords the Valar.

You do not tell them of the drumbeat of __not enough, not enough__ echoing deep inside your head; you do not tell them of the desperate wanting for what you do not have.

You don’t have many friends, nor do you particularly want them. Though you do follow Eönwë with many others, you are not friends, no—he ignores you, for the most part.

And like this, time passes.


	2. Of lakes and caves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A maia finds an isolated lake, and a disaster occurs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rest of this fic won’t be as abstract as the first chapter, so just note that there’s slight stylistic changes.

There is a lake on the edge of the world. It is not large, no—you could swim across it and back in barely any time—nor is it particularly deep.

It is completely unlike every other lake in Arda.

It sits, next to the wall of nonexistence that divides Arda from the rest of space, surrounded not by smooth sand but rather, by jagged rock. And jagged rock there is plenty—there are rocks of all shapes and sizes, from boulders with shattered edges, sharp enough to cut, to small splinters, sunken beneath the water. They look as though they were tossed, carelessly, rather than deliberately placed.

The lake is clear, completely, yet not glassy—its surface is broken by the chunks of rock that litter the bottom, some of which peeks through, above water. It does not reflect the stars, and perhaps that is what astonishes you the most.

It is asymmetrical, unlike the other lakes, lumpy, with a small peninsula heading towards its centre.

Though you are not aware of it, this lake is new, very new. It was created mere months ago.

It fascinates you, this place of—dare you say it?—imperfection.

There is a rock on one edge of the lake, twice as long as you are tall, and its width equal to your height. Its surface is flat, save for a few divots and bumps. The rock is tall enough for you to dangle your legs over the edge and not have your feet hit the water, but not so high as to be unreachable, though you do have to clamber over a few other rocks to get there.

It’s windy here, nothing like the gentle breezes of Lord Manwë in Almaren. It’s rough, choppy, whipping your hair into your face and causing waves to crash upon the shore, ever so slightly eroding the rock.

In time, you think, the rocks will become smooth, and eventually they will become sand.

It is a comforting thought, it strikes you, the idea that things will change. That the land you stand upon will one day be gone. You are not consigned to the same thing, for the rest of eternity.

It is also terrifying. Your accomplishments, the things you have made, they, too, will be gone, as the stone of your creations fade into sand.

The first time you come to this lake, you leave, immediately. It is not a place where you ought to linger for long. But there are no other maiar there, unlike every other part of this world, and it is quiet, and no one can hear you over the crashing of water and howl of wind.

You cannot put it out of your mind.

It goes against your nature, this lack of order, this chaotic arrangement of rocks, haphazardly strewn, and yet you cannot bring yourself to speak of it to Aulë, to re-order it yourself. To do so would ruin it utterly, make it the same as every other body of water in the world.

And so you return, again and again, drawn by the wildness of the lake.

* * *

At first you simply sit there, on your rock, as you reread your notes and recite melting points as you attempt to commit them to memory.

Soon you find, however, that it is too loud, too frenzied for you to focus on such tasks. The rock breaks, sometimes, cracking along fissure lines, where it is weak, and crashing into the water below, sending foamy splashes upwards. The wind passes through crevices and spaces between the rock in a mournful cry, whistling as it streams through your hair, blowing it into your eyes and mouth.

There are better places for you to study, better places for you to think.

Here, you are not constrained by what is expected of a maia. Here, you are not afraid of being caught.

Here, you let yourself be _you_.

You do not know you are being watched by a pair of eyes curious to see what you will do.

You do not let yourself give voice to the thoughts hidden inside you, not yet. But you come here when you suffer through another day of “how _admirable_ , that you choose to stay inside and smith—I could never be quite so still, not when it is so beautiful outside—come on, let’s have some _real_ fun.”

 _Not enough, not enough_. The words keep pounding through your head. _Not enough, not enough_. You want to scream.

And scream, you do, loudly. Your voice glides over the water, bounces between the stone, and is absorbed by the end of the world. You scream until your throat hurts, and you need to suck in big gulps of air to stop your lungs from burning.

You scream, wordless, until you’re exhausted, too tired to be angry anymore. You hate it, the way they speak to you, patronizing and lacking understanding, though you know they do not do it deliberately. They are content; they do not feel this wrong _want_.

It does not go away, no matter how much you try to ignore it, no matter how much you tell yourself you only wish to serve your lord, no matter how much you tell yourself to be content.

You allow yourself to feel it, then, your desire for more power than was given to you, to have your name and works extolled throughout Almaren, to be acknowledged, to be great, to be _known_.

You lock it deep inside you when you leave.

You return to the lake to scream, allow the winds to carry your voice to oblivion. Soon it is no longer wordless, but rather, you scream obscenities at those who have wronged you. You carry their names and actions deep inside you, allow your anger to simmer and ferment until it is wine dark and just as rich, and you return to the lake to let it out.

You are content to verbally abuse them, to insult their work and their dedication and their character. Smiths are lazy, undisciplined, unable to tell the head of a hammer from the handle—their work is sloppy, brittle, unable to withstand the weakest wind. Craftsmaiar are uncreative, elitist, and care more to play than design—their work is repetitive, unpleasing to the eye, not worthy of the material they are made from.

It helps, this, not having to hide. It’s like a weight is lifted off your shoulders. Still, you do not stop being afraid of being discovered, of this sanctuary of yours being destroyed, like your hill so long ago.

* * *

You rarely go to the mines. You enjoy it, being underground, surrounded by your lord’s creations, but there is rarely a need to. You’re a smith, and most of your raw materials are delivered to the forge storerooms, piles of refined metal and gemstones ready to be used and shaped into something else.

However, recently your attention has turned to mining. You do not expect to need to mine your own raw materials, no, but there is some sense of inefficiency that nags at you—if there is ever a need for great amounts of ore, whatever that need should be, there is no way it would be met. That is the excuse you will to any who question your actions, and though it is true, it is not the whole truth.

The truth is this: if you desire to become more, if you desire to become your lord’s favoured, you will need to know of all these things—and you desire all that and more.

So you descend, into the tunnels that snake deep beneath the earth, to watch the miners at work.

You learn more than you might’ve expected—where mine shafts are sunk, how to ensure they will not collapse, how to determine what metals and minerals are in place, how raw ore is transported, all the way to the refinery.

You are nearly done observing the miners when it happens. They are trying a new technique, a risky one and likely to fail, you think, but you do not command them, so you do not say anything. You are not deep beneath the earth, no—you are in one of the shallower shafts, and later you will be very thankful for that.

You feel a tremor run through the ground and think nothing of it. Then, the faint sounds of yelling, from below, a snatch of panicked song and then—the earth shakes, knocking you to the ground. You try to get up, try to get aboveground before it gets worse but then—

The ceiling collapses on you, and you are knocked into blackness.

You wake to find yourself buried. There is rock all around you, pressing into you, trapping you. You can’t see anything, can’t hear anyone. You can’t move, can’t wiggle, can’t so much as shift your body.

There is very little air here, and this body of yours needs to breathe.

You are trapped.

You can feel your breath come out in shallow gasps, can feel your mind panicking—what do I do what do I do what do I _do_ —and you try to focus, trying to find a way out but you can’t _think_.

You focus on your physical body instead. There is a sharp pain in your leg, a wet trickle over surrounding flesh—a cut, from rock, most likely. Your right arm is pinned awkwardly under your body, and a muscle in your shoulder twinges from the strain. Other than that, you are—miraculously—unharmed.

Mind clearer, now, panic pushed to the back of your mind, you turn to your situation.

You are trapped, underneath Eru knows how much rock. Soon you will not be able to breathe.

You dredge up a thin hum of song—you know what this rock sounds like and you should be able to move it—but your voice is reedy, weak, and splashes uselessly against the stone. There’s too much of it, and you’ve only ever practiced with small masses.

Useless.

You wish, desperately, desperately, that you had the power to get yourself out of this situation, that you could’ve avoided it, that you could’ve seen the structural weakness in the mine supports—and see them now you do—that you could’ve told the miners not to do anything, but you’re useless.

You did none of those things.

There is nothing you can do. There is nothing you can do.

You hate it.

Distantly, if you strain your ears, you can hear movement, the crackling of loose rock. Someone is here.

You yell, loudly, try to project a song: _I am here_.

Someone says something back, but you can’t make out the meaning. You continue to make noise, to try and lead them to you.

Thank Eru. You won’t be trapped for much longer. You’re being rescued.

The weight of the rocks lessens, slightly, then a beam of light shines in front you. The largest rock is moved off your body, and finally, finally you are free.

You see Aulë’s concerned face, as he holds out a hand, pulling you out.

“Thank you,” you say, shaking.

“Are you injured?” he asks.

“Just my leg,” you say. “I’m okay.”

There are two maiar helping him, shifting rock. You should be there. You feel, then, an acute sense of shame. You should be helping.

“Let me help,” you blurt out.

Aulë puts his hands on your shoulders.

“Go rest,” he says. “You’ve been through a lot.”

What you hear is: there is nothing you can do—you are useless.

“I’ll find out who’s missing,” you say, desperately. “I’ll make sure everyone’s accounted for.”

“Of course,” he says. “Take it easy.”

You nod, and run off to do your task.

It’s not as easy a task as you thought it would be, but it is calming. You keep a running list of who is uninjured, who is injured, who is helping with recovery, and where each and every one of them are. Your list mitigates some of the worst panic, as maiar, scared for their friends, are able to find out what has happened. You enjoy your work, your task of bringing some semblance of order to chaos, of knowledge.

It distracts you from what happened, from the panic that threatens to overwhelm you.

When Aulë leaves the tunnels, seemingly finished though there are still a dozen maiar unaccounted for, you go to his side, and tell him of your list. There are a few completely disembodied, many more grievously wounded taken to Lady Estë for healing, and more still with nothing other than a few scratches.

“Thank you, Mairon,” he says, smiling at you despite the dust that covers his face, and you wish this moment could last forever, that you could forever be appreciated.

In that moment, you decide that, no matter what you desire, you will turn those thoughts to best serve your lord. You will improve your crafts not for your own benefit, but for him.

 _He doesn't deserve you_ , something inside you says. _He does not deserve your devotion._

You ignore it.

“Have you gotten your leg looked at?” Aulë asks.

“No, not yet,” you say. “I’ll go now.”

He nods.

You go to Lady Estë’s halls, even though the cut on your leg is scabbed over and doesn’t hurt. You can’t go rest, not yet. There are too many things you need to work through—how to make something that would aid you in the cave in, how to prevent such a thing from happening, how to never be powerless like that ever again.

You can’t rest because you will dream of rock, pressing into you.

And you cannot ignore your curiosity, building inside you—how does a physical form react to injury? Your leg has more or less healed, but what of others?

The sight that greets you is much worse than you imagined.

Rows upon rows of maiar lay in makeshift beds, their pristine white sheets stained with red blood. You see limbs twisted in unnatural angles, bone poking out of torn and lacerated skin, deep gashes that sever muscle, and jagged shards of rock, piercing flesh. It is so much worse than you expected—you’ve never seen much worse than the occasional burn, a broken bone from playing too hard.

Lady Estë’s maiar look overwhelmed, hurrying with pitchers of fresh water and clean bandages, splints and sutures. You don’t get in their way as you walk among the rows of beds.

It would not be fair to take them away from their task—your leg is not important.

As you look, curiosity sparks, sharp and morbid. How do bodies react to blood loss? To pain? At what point does it become too much, and a maia collapses, unconscious. At what point do they become disembodied?

You tell yourself it is because you wish to heal them—you wish to ensure injuries do not cause too much hurt. You have been lying to yourself for a very long time now.

You come to a stop at the foot of the bed of a very familiar face—Forswë, a jeweller, who creates adornments for the Valar and their favoured. You do not like him. He bugs you, constantly, wheedling at you to abandon your work and play, mocking you for your lack of power.

Deep down, somewhere you will not allow yourself to look, you know he does not mean it. His comments are meant as a joke or as encouragement, but they hurt the same. He would stop, if you asked, but you cling to the idea that he hates you, if only so you can hate him in return. But you don’t let yourself think that.

His face is scrunched in a grimace of pain—his chest rises, weakly, and you can see the bruises over his ribs. It is then that you allow yourself to ask a healer what is wrong with him.

The lower half of his body is shattered, hips and legs and feet, and he has a few cracked ribs. It sounds—and looks—painful. But as you stand over his unconscious body, you cannot help but enjoy it—that finally you are more powerful than him, that he hurts as you do.

You flee the scene, away from the image that stirs such thoughts in your mind, but you cannot run away from yourself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have never been to therapy nor am I a therapist, so let’s just say that mistakes and bad advice are because Irmo’s maiar are still figuring things out. OC names are taken from old English. Hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	3. Of mines and reconciliation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mairon helps rebuild the mines, in the aftermath. The denizens of Almaren receive a surprisingly welcome visitor.

The mine collapse does not leave you, not for a long time. You cannot so much as go near what remains of the mines without panicking, and every time you close your eyes, you are back, trapped under the rock.

Images of pain bombard your mind for the next while. You cannot stop thinking of Forswë, of his face scrunched in pain, of images of gore. It horrifies you, the violence. Just as you thought that perhaps, you had some way to deal with your wanting, there is something new.

Tasks in your lord’s halls are few, out of understanding for the tragedy that has occurred. Your own work is inefficient, if you cannot focus enough to get those images out of your mind. You must deal with that, first, before you can continue.

You resolve to go to Lord Irmo, to seek help. This time you will not be caught unaware, not like the last time you went to Lady Estë. This time you will seek advice, and act of your own accord.

Lord Irmo’s halls are beautiful in the way that everything upon Almaren is beautiful—symmetrical, elegant, calm. Inside the building are calm lights, muted blue and purple and green.

“Lord Irmo is busy,” one of his maiar says. “Is there something you want?”

“Yes,” you say. “I wanted to ask about—the aftermath of the cave in.”

“You are a maia of Aulë, are you not?” the maia asks. “Would you not know better?”

“I am, except—” you break off, with a sigh. “I can’t stop remembering being trapped.”

The maia’s face softens with sympathy.

“I see,” he says. “You would not be the first to come in search of help with that.”

A pause.

“If you wait,” he continues, “Lord Irmo will be back, and he can help you forget.”

“No,” you say. “I don’t seek to forget, just to understand, and overcome it.”

He nods.

“Would you feel comfortable talking to me?” he asks.

“Yes, that would be good.”

You settle in a plush chair, covered in soft fabric, in a room in a corner of Lord Irmo’s hall. It’s small and windowless, but there are paintings on the walls. The maia settles opposite of you.

“I find myself avoiding the cave,” you say. “I’m not—a miner, but I want to help. But every time I try, I walk there and as soon as I lay eyes on the broken rock, I panic. I can’t go. And I just—how am I meant to function like this?”

The question is rhetorical, and the maia, Hieran, doesn’t answer.

“I feel responsible,” you say. “That the mine collapsed. Even though I had nothing to do with it, I feel like I should’ve known in advance, that there must’ve been something I could’ve done.”

A pause.

“For your first problem,” Hieran says, “I can offer a solution. Refamiliarize yourself with the mine, together with someone you trust. You may make new memories, and you will stop thinking about the collapse each time.

“As for your second, I can only offer a few words of comfort. We are but maiar, and limited in power. None of us can be responsible for everything that happens in this world. There was nothing you could’ve done, no way for you to foresee this. When you begin to think thoughts like this, confront them. They are not rational.”

A pause.

“Thank you,” you say, but you haven’t gotten what you wanted.

“Consider returning sometime soon,” Hieran says. “It can help to talk about something, and work through your thoughts and emotions that way.”

“Thank you,” you say. “I will, if it doesn’t get better.”

As for the other issue, you will have to deal with it yourself.

* * *

There is no one you trust to really talk about your thoughts with, no one and nothing except your lake, and it is there that you retreat.

You sit on your rock, and you speak, unaware of the dark figure that watches you.

“I cannot stop thinking of it,” you say, speech meandering and without a concise point, so much unlike your usual words. “I cannot stop thinking of the disaster that has taken place. This comes in two parts, I suppose.

“First, the cave in itself. It makes me feel powerless. I know I do not have power enough to sing rock to obey me like that, and I know I am not responsible for the delving of the mines. And yet, it feels as though it is my responsibility to ensure it does not happen.”

A pause.

“It scares me, because trapped underneath tons of broken rock, pinned, helpless, bleeding and in pain, there was nothing I could do. I do not wish to be powerless like that. I _know_ I don’t have power, and yet I can’t help but want it, if only because there is so much I can accomplish. There is so much I want to do.”

You take a deep breath. It is freeing, this, being able to put your thoughts to words, to speak them, to give them credibility. You can’t believe Hieran was actually right.

“Second, the injured. It is horrifying. It horrifies me, the wounds, the blood, the pain. And yet, I am so curious. So little is known about the mechanism of bodies, but I want to learn more. I want to rip people apart and see what makes them run.”

You let out a breath, half a sob.

“What is wrong with me?”

Your voice fades.

“What’s wrong with me?” you ask again, this time a scream.

Your breaths come out in sobs, and wetness streams down your face—crying, you are crying.

“What is wrong with me?” you ask, no more than a whisper.

There is no answer, but of course you weren’t expecting one. You are not important enough for Eru to take notice, for him to answer you.

* * *

You hear talk of reopening the mines. It’s expected—there are some necessities which require metal, even if jewellery and other adornments are not made.

It should not be your responsibility, no, but you will make it yours.

You go to Aulë, with the intention of convincing him to allow you to help.

“Lad,” he says, “you don’t need to.”

“I know,” you say. “I know I’m a smith, not a miner, but I want to.”

He doesn’t look convinced.

You tell him you can’t stop remembering the incident.

“I went to talk to one of Lord Irmo’s maiar,” you say, and you take the approving look as a small success, “and he said that seeing the mines again, but in a different light, might help me get over the uh, trauma.”

You pause.

“I thought, maybe, if I helped rebuild the mines, then I would be able to reassure myself that they won’t collapse again.”

Aulë puts a hand on your shoulder.

“Alright,” he says.

“Really?” You look up.

“Of course you can help.”

“I won’t disappoint you,” you say, but as soon as the words leave your mouth, you recognize how awkward that sounds.

You’re invited to attend planning meetings, with around a dozen or so craftsmaiar and miners—architects, to design the mines, and workers, to know what is necessary. You’re the only smith at the table.

Gearë, an architect, head of the committee, begins the meeting.

“Welcome, siblings,” she says. “Our first order of business is to determine what caused the collapse of the mines.”

Ontëon, a miner, begins. He speaks of what was found in the mines, the evidence gathered.

“There is no conclusive result,” he says. “Anyone who can speak of the events is unconscious or yet to be reembodied.”

“What’s stopping them from reembodiment?” another maia—you do not know her name—asks.

“Trauma,” Gearë says. “They must be healed, first.”

A pause.

“You do remember the war with the Dark Lord?” she asks.

Nods from around the table.

So you are the only person who does not. You speak up.

“I do not,” you say. “Would you elaborate?”

“When a maia’s physical body is injured,” she says, “there may be repercussions on their spirit, if the injury is grievous enough. Thus, they require time to heal.”

You nod.

“Then we do not know what happened?” the third maia—Carr, you think her name is—asks.

“It appears not,” Gearë says.

“I was there,” you interject. “I might know.”

All eyes are on you. It’s terrifying, and you love it.

“At the bottom of the mines,” you say, “some maiar were trying a new technique for extracting ore.”

A pause.

“Currently mining and refining are two different steps. I believe they were attempting to extract and refine metal at the same time.”

Dead silence.

“A mistake, then,” Gearë says. She looks relieved, and so does Ontëon. What did they think it was?

Carr laughs, a little nervously.

“I guess the question then, is: how do we idiot proof a mine?”

Laughter, from all around. You chuckle, slightly, too.

“Very funny,” Gearë says, though she’s smiling too.

“Did you notice anything else?” Another question, this time directed at you.

You outline the weaknesses of the structural supports, and Gearë promises to have someone take a look at and redesign it.

You walk out of the meeting, feeling accomplished.

* * *

It’s later that you realize: these meetings will eventually stop being theoretical, and you will need to return to the mines.

You can’t keep avoiding them, and you can’t keep yourself so busy that you don’t think about what happened. You need to deal with it.

You take a chair and your notebook, sitting down just close enough that the rubble is in sight. You work on your projects, on your designs, and you force yourself to look at the mine. You move a bit closer, every time you think you’ve familiarized yourself with the scenery. Eventually, you no longer feel the sharp bite of panic every time you see it. Eventually, you can walk over the broken stone without remembering what it felt like to be trapped.

You push the memories deep into a corner of your mind, thinking of support beams and tunnel structures instead.

You call it a success, and move on. But things like this, they stay with you for a very long time, and later, you will dream of crushing stone though you will forget when you wake.

You return to the lake, and continue to talk to it. It’s not longer just curses and wordless screams—you speak to it as a friend, your only confidante.

“Lord Aulë assigned me to supervise the construction of the supports,” you say. “I’m finally in charge of something, even if it’s as small as making sure the beams are made straight.”

“I never thought I would enjoy it so much,” you say, another time. “Being in control, being the final say in what’s acceptable and what’s not, rather than simply being one of the workers. To have my own plans and to see them carried out by others is—I enjoy it. I wish I could do this all the time.”

“I think people are beginning to respect me a little,” you say, at the end, when the mines are done. “They don’t see my work and think of how useless it is, to make tools to do what they themselves can. They can look at the mines and what I’ve done ensuring they don’t collapse, and think of what I’ve accomplished.”

And the mines _are_ a success. They’re as idiot proof as you can make them—you supervised much of the construction yourself, since the rest of the committee thought it below them to watch each minuscule detail—and Aulë himself approved, saying: “I don’t think another collapse will happen for a very long time.”

The praise brings warmth to your chest, and you cling to the memory, turning it over and over again in your mind.

“If only people could see what I can do,” you tell your lake. “If only someone would see me for who I am, full of everything I desire, and still love me.”

Because you don’t think they would. You know if they knew what you thought, they would cast you out without a second glance.

“I think I’ve found what I’m meant to be” —another one sided conversation, another time—“I think I’m meant to bring order to things. Keeping track of supplies, of ready made objects, of which places need what, I’m good at that, at making sure people do what they’re supposed to.”

You return to your normal life and routine soon after, though—requests and experiments and people trying to convince you to play. This time, you turn your skills to jewellery. But now you’ve tasted what you could have, you are even less satisfied.

* * *

The rumour mill in Almaren travels quickly. The Valar’s favoured do not tell their secrets so easily, but there are others, whose ears are keen and are more willing to speak.

So when Lord Manwë suggests another attempt at reconciliation with his brother, it does not stay secret for long, and soon it is all anyone speaks of. The information reaches you later, avoidant as you are of conversation, but it piques your interest—very few things as exciting as this happen, and what a change this would be.

For once, you attempt to join your peers as they talk, as they spread what little information they know. Few maiar have seen him in person, though almost all have been affected, in one way or another. And information, you know, passed through so many cannot be accurate, not in the way you’d like.

But you attempt to gather information nonetheless—you will not be caught unaware, unprepared for what is to come. The attempt itself, you know, will be relatively short. What is to come later will have a far longer impact—if it is successful, there will be another lord, another household, and if it is unsuccessful, you would not be surprised if there will be another war.

This is what you learn:

His name is Melkor, He Who Arises in Might, though his name is rarely spoken by the maiar. The maia who tells you, one of Lady Estë’s, whispers his name, barely loud enough to hear.

“Why are you afraid to say it?”

“Because,” she says, looking around nervously, “they say that he will hear you—and sometimes he’ll appear!”

That doesn’t sound true—you’ve never heard of anyone possessing that power.

“Who says?”

That trail of investigation doesn’t lead to any answers, only dead ends. You file that information under: dubious.

He fought against the Valar in the war, until Lord Tulkas descended to Arda.

This you know already. But you discover the details, that you did not—you did not know of the ease with which he subverted the Valar, the carelessness of his actions.

They speak often of what he destroyed. They speak of what he demanded—to take Arda for his own, to be lord of all, counter to Eru’s desires.

Their words sound familiar, ringing in some unidentified corner of your mind, and you do not recognize what it reminds you of until you do.

It reminds you of yourself.

And that is not a pleasant thought.

The Dark Lord—Melkor—is the most powerful of the Valar, and he has been banished outside the circles of the world. What would they do to you, you wonder. But there is hope, you think. Lord Manwë still wants to invite his brother to Almaren, to reconcile with him.

You will be there, you tell yourself, when he comes. You will watch how the Valar treat him, and you will decide how to act—if your fears are unfounded or if you should continue to hide.

Eönwë—golden Eönwë, radiant and strong—is sent to deliver the message. He returns with a single word answer: yes.

Your heart pounds hard in your chest, and you throw yourself into your work to distract yourself from your nerves.

And it is just as well, for requests for jewellery and new works have increased—rings, necklaces, bracelets, and earrings for not only the Valar and their favoured, but also the many lesser maiar who, for some reason, wish to look radiant.

“Why do you wish for new jewellery?” you ask one of the many who wish for new adornments.

“Well—he—the Dark Lord—” the maia, Orfan, a carver splutters, seemingly speechless.

“You wish to attract his attention?” you ask.

“Of course not,” he exclaims, shocked you’d suggest that, but the flush spreading over his face says otherwise.

“You know,” you say, “there’s a rumour he can hear anyone who speaks his name. Why don’t you simply go yell his name a few times?”

Your suggestion is vehemently rejected.

It’s only newer maiar who ask for new things—none of those who experienced the war are so excited.

“You don’t want his attention,” Gearë tells you. “It’s not a good thing to have—Ossë was nearly seduced to his service. He speaks only lies.”

You don’t understand the fervour that has overtaken the others, but you put it out of your mind, and don’t think more of it.

* * *

The Dark Lord has not given a time for when he will arrive, and you spend much of your time isolated in the forge.

You are making a bracelet when you notice a loud thud, in the distance, but there is little shouting and it does not sound like a building collapsing, so you ignore it, though you do wonder why there is a frenzy of conversation that quickly disappears.

If it’s important, someone will tell you.

Briefly, there is absolute silence. It’s blissful, you think. No one is here to disturb your forging—this bracelet will be a work of art, full of jagged and harsh lines, like your lake. You will not show it to anyone, no, but it will be yours.

You place the final gemstone—a red ruby, like fire—in the bracelet when the forge doors bang open.

“Mairon!” Orfan exclaims. “I can’t believe you’re still in here.”

You tuck your bracelet into a small bag and turn to him.

“Why?”

“The Dark Lord was just here!”

He what. 

“Tell me more,” you demand, still unable to process the fact that you apparently missed him. “What happened?”

“He appeared in a dark shadow, materializing before Lord Manwë’s throne.” Orfan’s eyes gleam with excitement, apparently pleased to know more than you. “He shook the earth and his form—oh—it was _hideous_. He was covered in eyes, and there was so much exposed bone and rotting flesh. I don’t know how Lord Manwë’s brother would choose to look like _that_.”

“Still want him to notice you?”

He throws a hammer at you, but you dodge easily.

“And what happened?”

“Well, Lord Manwë appeared, and so did the other lords and ladies,” Orfan continues. “And then he spoke and his voice was awful” —he clutches his head at the remembered sound—“like metal scraping against stone, only much lower.

“He called Lord Manwë _brother_ and asked _are you here to give me my rightful place, ruling over Arda_ and then Lord Manwë said _no_ , so he replied _well, that will be all, then_ and then he left.”

You blink, slowly.

“Is that it?”

“Well, yeah,” Orfan says. “Lord Manwë had to spend some time talking to us, though. He said we shouldn’t be so interested in his brother and that he was dangerous.”

He looks rather miserable.

“Well,” you say, wanting to comfort him, “at least you got to see him.”

That seems to upset him more.

“I wish I hadn’t!” he exclaims. “I don’t think I’ll stop seeing how horrifying he looked.”

You advise him to visit Lord Irmo’s halls, if it’s too awful, and he leaves, casting strange glances at you. Did he want comfort from you?

You slap yourself. You can’t believe you missed it, absorbed as you were in your work.

But it doesn’t sound like you missed much, and Lord Manwë is probably correct. The Dark Lord is dangerous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i do apologize that Melkor hasn’t shown up in person yet, but i swear i was going to get to that part. just a short detour, first. (and if you’re wondering, yes, mairon does have a bit of a crush on eonwe)
> 
> not... entirely happy with this chapter, but i wanted to stick to a regular posting schedule (with luck, future updates will be on fridays) so here it is now.
> 
> comments and feedback is always welcome :)


	4. Of conversations and secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mairon runs away from many awkward conversations.

You’re experimenting with the ductility of various alloys, noting your observations in cramped script in your notebook. You’re thinking of using this information to make jewellery—in making filigree, perhaps, thin strands would be useful.

Out in the hall, there’s a commotion and—still unhappy about missing the last big event—since you’ve just finished this trial, you head out to see what’s happening.

It’s Forswë, back from Lady Estë’s halls. He’s surrounded by maiar congratulating him, telling him how glad they are to see him back, healthy.

And he is healthy—he stands straight, on both legs, without the winces of pain other maiar returned with.

He spots you, lingering in the doorway.

“Mairon!” he exclaims. “Finally come out of the forge?”

“There was noise,” you say, flatly.

“Come on,” he says, walking towards you. He has a slight limp, not very pronounced, and you wouldn’t have noticed if you weren’t looking for it. “You’re not glad to see me back?”

“I’m glad you’re healed,” you say.

He wraps you in a hug, and you stiffen. His body is taller than yours, enveloping you completely, and it’s uncomfortable—too warm, too suffocating. You squirm your way out.

He whacks you on your back, hard enough to make you stumble forward. He guides you, with a hand between your shoulder blades, as he walks down the hall. You’re immediately surrounded by his group of friends, mostly all jewellers. He leads you to the jewellers’ workspace, full of large open windows and polished marble.

“I hear you’ve been dabbling with jewellery,” he says. “Tell me, what new innovations have you created?”

You tell yourself he means well, that when he inevitably insults your work, it is not deliberate.

You show him one of your tools, still in the pockets of your apron, and tell him what it’s for.

He looks at it, carefully, making admiring noises, and passing it onto the next maia.

“That’s so clever!” he says. “I could never think of such a thing.”

A pause.

“Well I suppose I would have need of such a thing.”

Your irritation grows. The memory of his face, contorted in pain, flashes before your eyes.

“I imagine not,” you say, curtly.

“Oh, come on,” he says. “Don’t be like that.”

 _Like what_ , you think.

“Why don’t you show me—”

“I left something in the fire,” you say, abruptly. “Can’t let it melt.”

You turn, snatch your tool away, and leave.

“But you didn’t?” Forswë sounds confused, and he would be right to.

You haven’t left anything unattended, but it gives you an excuse to leave the conversation before you grab a hammer and smash his skull.

* * *

Your irritation doesn’t fade, even as you complete your set of experiments. Just one solution, then: your lake.

You sit, on your flat rock, dangling your feet into the water. It’s cold, colder than you expected. Most other bodies of water are warm, or just cool enough to be refreshing. Nothing’s cold enough to hurt like this.

“I want to smash his head with a hammer,” you say. “Until his skull cracks into fragments of bone, spilling red blood and smearing the ground with his brains. I want to hear the crunch of bone, the wet squelch of tissue.”

A pause.

“I just want him dead—somewhere he can’t annoy me,” you continue. “Would anyone notice if an unfortunate accident put him back in Lady Estë’s halls?”

You’re breathing heavily by now, the imagined images vivid in your mind.

Behind you, there’s the crackle of rock—a footstep. Someone’s here.

You whip around.

There’s someone standing in the shadow of a tall rock. He’s tall, taller than you by at least a head, with broad shoulders, dark hair in a tangled mess falling over his shoulders, and a sharp, angular face.

“Please don’t be afraid,” he says, in a low voice.

You freeze—then you run.

* * *

You return to your bed, in a panic.

No doubt you will soon be summoned by your lord, if nor Lord Manwë and the other Valar. You wonder what will happen then. The other will be there, of course, and your lord—or perhaps Lord Manwë—will ask you: is it true—did you say those things?

And perhaps you will try to say: no, it was not me, but they are not maiar, to be so easily fooled.

And they will see the truth of what you are—and you wish to be seen but not like this—and they will be displeased. And perhaps they will cast you out or they will ensure you never have a chance to become powerful, to become great.

What if you’re demoted, spending eternity making screws? It doesn’t bear thinking of.

You wait, certain that the summons will come soon.

The anticipation is going to end you—can maiar cease to exist like mountains turned into plains? You may be the first to find out.

You can’t breathe, like the air above you is just too heavy for your body to bear.

You need to think of something else—the person, at the lake. What had he said? Please don’t be afraid.

You almost laugh, bitter and harsh, because you are very, very afraid. Though—and the thought strikes you—should it not be he who is afraid? Your words were bloody and violent, nothing like conversation in Almaren.

Why would he ask you to not be afraid?

The bigger question, the one you’ve been avoiding—who is he?

You don’t recognize him, not even vaguely, though this isn’t as surprising as it might be—you often go out of your way to avoid meeting new people and conversation.

You did not see him for long enough to glean any details beyond the shape of his body.

But enough about him, you think. You are completely doomed. Will they think you’re one of the Dark Lord’s spies? You’ve heard Gearë and Ontëon mutter about that, during those mine meetings. Perhaps you shouldn’t have been so disappointed about missing him the last time, because you’ll soon be tossed outside the world, with him.

It’ll be cold, you think, not a cold to cause pain but a cold to numb, a cold to stifle your fire. You don’t want to end up outside the world, not now, not ever.

Panic threatens to overtake you, once again, so you turn to the results of your latest experiments and set to memorizing the ductility of your metals. It’s calming, even though you know you’ll never have a chance to use that information.

But as the rest period draws to an end—a work period starts and ends—another rest period—and nothing happens, you begin to wonder if he really said anything.

You poke your head into the forge, expecting hundreds of cold glares. Instead you find the usual reaction—a few friendly hellos, waves, glances.

Aulë—how did you not see him?—walks over.

“Mairon,” he says, loud and friendly, “glad to see you taking a break. Lad, you work too hard.”

He pats you in the shoulder.

“Is something wrong?” he asks, with a light frown. “You look—”

“No, you just startled me,” you say, with a smile. You force yourself to relax. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“Good, good,” he says. “Glad to hear it.”

You watch him leave.

Why hasn’t the unknown individual told anyone?

You try to imagine yourself in that position. What would you do?

Simply to protect you? You doubt it.

Because he wishes to take on the role of fixing you? Perhaps, but this risks him as well. And it goes against prevalent thought, to do something secretly.

Perhaps he hasn’t decided what to do, though it appears to you quite clear what the options are.

He means to threaten you, then—to hold what he’s seen, what he knows over you and demand whatever he’d like.

It’s what you would do.

Then—why has he not approached you yet? Too dangerous, perhaps, to do it in Almaren, surrounded by your peers. He’ll be waiting by the lake, you imagine.

You make up your mind to return there, though you do not want to.

* * *

The first thing you see when you step out of your lord’s halls is a flash of metal in the skies. It’s—Eönwë, broad wings outstretched, a sword in his hand. He’s fighting another maia, winged as well. His sword strikes almost faster than you can follow, impacting with the other’s in a sharp clash of metal.

Parry—block—a dodge.

You stand there, watching the strength of his blows, the agility of his actions.

How can one maia be so grand?

Eönwë flies over the other maia, and, in one kick, sends him tumbling to the ground before you. Before either you or his opponent—Ficerë, you think he’s called—can react, Eönwë is there, pointing his sword to the other maia’s throat.

“I win,” he says, a calm declaration. He sheathes his sword, holding a hand out of Ficerë to haul himself off the ground.

“One day,” Ficerë says.

Eönwë claps him on the shoulder and says: “keep practicing. Good work.”

The other takes flight, and Eönwë turns to look at you.

“That was very impressive,” you blurt out.

“Thank you,” he says. “You are—Mairon, yes?”

He knows of you!

“Yes, that’s me,” you say, somewhat awkwardly. “Hello.”

“Your jewellery is very beautiful,” he says, and you feel your entire face heat up. “One of my favourite necklaces was made by you.”

“Thank you,” you say, struggling to keep the smile off your face. “I’d be happy to make you more—if you’d like, I mean.”

“Of course!” he says. “I’ll be sure to come by the forge sometime.”

A pause as you try to come up with words.

“Well I’ll be—”

“Wait!” you exclaim. He looks at you expectantly. “Could you, uh, teach me to fight?”

“Why would you need to learn?”

“Just in case,” you say. “I want to be able to defend myself.”

Eönwë nods.

“Well I can’t promise you I’ll be able to train you myself,” he says, “but I’ll see if I can organize something for volunteers. You wouldn’t be the first who’s asked.”

“That would be great,” you say.

He nods, and leaves. You watch him fly away, and think that whoever is fated to be his partner is very lucky indeed.

It’s only then that you realize what you’ve signed up for: combat training. You’re not a fighter—you’re a smith, meant to be making armour and weapons. You’d be awful in combat.

But in your desire to spend more time with Eönwë, you’ve asked to learn how to fight.

How stupid.

It would be a good skill to have, you tell yours. Who knows when you’ll need to fight?

* * *

You have to rehearse conversations before going back to your lake. You play out every scenario you can think of, practicing what you’ll say and the tone of your voice. You don’t have your lake to use, so instead you take advantage of the empty forge and other abandoned rooms.

You think you’re prepared when you return to the lake.

There’s no one there, and you think you’ve misunderstood. Panic threatens to overtake you, but you recite melting points to keep yourself calm.

“Hello?” you call. “Anyone there?”

Silence. You sit on your rock, completely unprepared for what to do now. At least the water is unchanged.

“Hello.” A low voice comes from behind you, and you scramble to your feet.

He’s standing there, looking the same as he did the last time. You hop off your pile of rocks, until you’re standing closer to him. There’s light around him, you can tell, but it’s hidden from your sight, as though deliberately.

“Hi,” you say, before realizing you’ve already said that. You flush.

He doesn’t say anything—you’d expected he’d make his ultimatum by now.

“Do you come here often?” you ask, by way of small talk. Usually, you despise small talk, but your mind blanks, and there's nothing else you can think to say.

He looks at you, strangely.

“I live around here,” he says.

Oh. Oh no.

“Uh,” you say, intelligently. “I am so sorry for coming here to vent my frustrations.”

“It’s quite alright,” he says. “It’s rather amusing, and I have little else to do.”

You’ve been screaming at his metaphorical front door for a long time. No wonder he’s chosen to come talk to you. He probably wants you to stop.

“I’ll stop,” you say.

“There’s no need.”

An awkward silence.

“I’m Mairon,” you say. “What’s—your name?”

His gaze turns incredulous.

“You don’t know who I am?”

“No?” you say. “Should I?”

“Nevermind, then,” he says. A pause, then, “why did you run?”

“You know,” you say, “you caught me admitting I’d like to commit violence. I was—it wasn’t a good time.”

Silence.

“You’re not the only one I run from,” you say, not quite knowing why. “I run away from conversations all the time.”

He makes an amused noise.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Don’t really like people.”

A pause.

“What about you?” you ask.

“There are very few around me who can hold a good conversation,” he says, somewhat stiffly.

“That’s unfortunate,” you say. Then: “you could talk to me—I mean—if you’d like.”

He looks surprised.

“That is—”

“I would like that, yes,” he says.

“Okay, great!” You laugh somewhat nervously. “I guess I’ll see you around?”

“Yes,” he says, as though he’s not entirely sure what to make of you.

“You aren’t going to tell anyone, are you?” you ask. “About, you know, what you heard.”

“I won’t say a word,” he says.

You nod.

“Oh, and before I forget”—because it nearly slipped your mind and oh how you hate that— “I uh, made something.”

You hold out your lake bracelet, the one with the rubies and harsh lines.

“It was inspired by this lake, which you remind me of,” you say, realizing how stupid you sound. You meant it as proof of what you can do, if he doesn’t turn you in, and even though he says he won’t, you still think it will help.

He takes it from you, inspecting it.

“It’s a bracelet,” you say, then immediately want to disappear—or disembody yourself. Of course he knows it’s a bracelet.

“It’s very beautiful,” he says. “Thank you.”

Beautiful is not the word you’d use, but you take the compliment.

You mutter hasty goodbyes, and you leave before you can make more of a fool of yourself.

What have you gotten yourself into?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had so much second hand embarrassment writing this chapter!! Yes, my Mairon is just a bit socially awkward.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it! Questions, concerns, and other comments are always welcome :)


	5. Of revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our main couple remains a disaster, and Mairon learns more about his mysterious acquaintance.

You don’t visit your lake the next day, but you go the day after.

You come up with a list of conversation topics, drafting specifics of what to talk about and potential questions to ask. You’ve implied that you’re a good conversationalist—which you’re _not_ —and you don’t want to disappoint your new—friend? Acquaintance? You’re not sure what to call him.

In fact, you don’t even know his name. You asked, you know, but he didn’t answer you.

There’s no one there, not yet, but you call out: “hello? I’m here, if you want to talk,” and sit down on your rock to wait.

This time, the response isn’t as quick, and you decide that he’s probably busy with whatever he does—you still know very little about him—and so you sit down, with your notebook, to draft another necklace for Eönwë. He hasn’t come to you, not yet, but you want to be prepared—so that you don’t make a fool of yourself when he does.

Silver, you think, silver and sapphire. Perhaps diamond, too, to suggest air. You begin to sketch, thinking of strong lines, smooth and steady.

“Who is that for?”

The voice comes from very close to you, and you startle, knocking your head into his face with a crack and nearly falling into the lake. He grabs your upper arm, steadying you.

“I didn’t see you there,” you say. Sheepishly, “sorry for hitting you.”

“No harm done,” he says, still holding your arm. “I’ve had worse.”

“Oh.” You’re not sure what you should say. You try to delicately extricate your arm from his grip—

He doesn’t seem to notice.

“My arm,” you say.

“What? Oh, of course,” he says, realizing what he’s doing. He sits down and gestures to your drawing. “Do you make jewellery often?”

“It’s a recent thing,” you say. “I’ve been making a lot of jewellery since the mine collapse.”

“Mine collapse?”

“You don’t know about it?”

“News does not often reach me,” he says. “I have heard of it, but the details were few. Will you tell me what happened?”

“Some miners tried to extract and refine ore at the same time,” you say. “It didn’t go well and the entire mine collapsed. There were—a lot of injuries.”

“You were injured, weren’t you?” Does he sound—concerned? He barely knows you—why would he be concerned for your safety and wellbeing? You must be mistaken, you think. You know you aren’t good with people.

“Yes,” you say, before realizing that barely anyone knows that. “It wasn’t serious.”

A pause.

“How do you know that?” Accusatory, this time, maybe too harsh. You wince inside.

He seems at a loss for words.

“Well I—”

He seems to make a decision.

“I’ve been listening to you for a while now,” he says.

You freeze. If he heard you talk about the mine—then he’s heard—he’s heard—

He puts a hand on the side of your face, stroking your cheekbone with his thumb.

“I don’t think you were made wrong,” he says. “I don’t think you ought to feel guilty for wanting what you do not have.”

You stand up abruptly, jerking your face out of his grasp. You’re overtaken with the desire to get out of here, to run. But his words are intoxicating, and oh how badly you want his validation.

“I—”

It is so, so tempting, that he, stranger as he is, should know the worst parts of you and still wish to interact with you. He knows you, and he has not rejected you.

“You were meant to be great,” he says, standing you, gripping your hands in his. His dark eyes are intent on yours. “Not to suffer like this, chafing under the pressure of your peers and the fear of being discovered.”

His words are impassioned, filled with so much emotion that you cannot breathe. You believe him—you should not, nothing good can come of this—

You believe him.

“It wasn’t meant for you to hear,” you say, “but I don’t mind.”

As an attempt at a joke, you then say: “I suppose it’s my fault, for yelling my feelings outside your house.”

He smiles at you, like a huge weight has been lifted from his shoulders.

“I was—” he starts again—“I thought you would run again, and not come back this time.”

“After what you’ve overheard me say, you should be the one running.”

You say it lightly, as a joke, but it’s not.

“No,” he says. “Believe me, I would not.”

You sit down, giving into the overwhelming urge to giggle.

He sits, too, casting you a concerned look.

“I came up with a whole list of things to talk about,” you say, between laughs. “You derail all my plans.”

“Well,” he says, “that is what I’m known for.”

That’s a joke, you think, but—known for?

You stop laughing, and turn to him.

“I still don’t know your name,” you say.

He sighs.

“It will have to remain that way, for now,” he says.

“Why do you hide who you are?” You are certain that he is keeping himself wrapped tightly around his core, shoved into his body without a single way to tell who or what he is. It would be useful, you think, to not go around announcing everything about yourself, but for now it is a nuisance, preventing you from gathering information.

“I don’t want people finding me,” he says.

He’s probably telling the truth, though not in its entirety.

“It’s not fair that you should know everything about me, while I know nothing about you.”

“One day,” he says. “One day you will know.”

It’s not what you hoped for, but it sounds like a promise, and it will have to be enough for now.

* * *

In the centre of Almaren lies the thrones of the Valar. They stand in a circle, each throne equidistant from the ones beside it, save for the path that runs through the circle, perpendicular to the axis of the lamps. To its north, some distance away, is a large pavilion for celebrations.

To its south is a garden, kept immaculate and unchanging by Yavanna’s maiar. There are ferns and shrubs and trees, lush and green, under whose shade maiar gather and play games; there are small flowers, blanketing the ground in a carpet of white and pink and lilac; there are vines, twining around intricate metalwork, laden with flowers and leaves.

It is spring in Almaren, the only season it has known, and in this world like a dream, flowers do not fade.

You rarely come here, busy as it is and teeming with song. It is too both too peaceful—the kind of peace you feel you will never achieve—and too, too loud.

There is a calm kind of joy that comes with utter contentment with the world, and yet, it is not quite nor solitary enough for you to focus—laughter rings out from every corner, and song too, songs of happiness and love and adoration.

It makes you want to sing, too, without thinking, though you dare not for fear you will reveal something. Lady Estë’s maiar did not discover anything out of the ordinary, no, and yet—something about you has changed since then. You cannot tell when, or why, or even how and yet—you are not the same as you once were.

That this should happen is nigh unthinkable. Things do not change, and if they should it is controlled, deliberate. One does not simply wake up one day, different than the day before.

You suspect it has to do with your lake. It is a changing thing, rocks turning to sediment not by design, but by its nature.

You are—and it is surprising, though you think it should not be—afraid to return, afraid of the intensity of the other’s words, afraid of what you would do to hear them spoken again.

So you come to this garden and sit among the manicured grass and design earrings for Lady Varda’s maiar.

You do not expect, however, to fall asleep.

You wake up to a shadow over your face and a hand brushing hair from your face, gently.

“Wha—” you mumble, trying to open stubborn eyes.

“Shh.” The voice from the lake. “Sleep.”

Unwillingly, your eyes close, and you slip back into sleep.

You wake up to shouting and panicked song. You open your eyes, but it isn’t soft, short grass that greets you. It’s long, and wild, growing in a tangle. Some have long stalks, heavy with seeds at its tip. You look around—leaves have fallen from trees onto the ground; flowers have wilted, browned and discoloured petals dropping from stems; vines are overgrown and twisted, threatening to choke their neighbours. Even the metalwork is rusted reddish brown. There is an air of carelessness there, change for change’s sake, not to reach some end.

It is like your lake, you think, but in the heart of Almaren.

Gearë, newly arrived with some of Aulë’s maiar, sees you and asks, “what happened?”

“I don’t know,” you say, honestly. “I feel asleep and then—this.”

They take your wide-eyed awe as shock and lead you away, back to your lord’s halls.

This is the work of your mysterious acquaintance, you think. There is no other reason he would have been here. And yet: to be able to change the whole garden in such a short time—how much power is needed?

It strikes you, then, that he might’ve made the lake. It might be his, not yours.

You don’t like that.

You are summoned by your lord, though it is expected—the other maiar in the garden are also summoned, individually..

You tell him you fell asleep and woke up to the changed garden. You don’t mention your acquaintance.

It appears, from your lord’s weary face and resigned sigh, that your story is the same as all others.

“May I ask what happened?” you ask.

“Melkor,” he says. As an afterthought: “or one of his servants.”

“Why would he do such a thing?” Your acquaintance can’t be the Dark Lord himself, can he? “I thought he was—outside this world.”

It makes sense. It makes so much sense—why he would conceal himself, why he would not speak of your actions to another, why he would hide his identity—but you refuse to believe it. You cannot believe. You choose, deliberately, not to believe it.

“Revenge, maybe,” he says. Then: “Mairon, will you do something for me?”

“Anything,” you vow.

“Keep track of your siblings,” he says. “Make sure they don’t—disappear.”

“Disappear? Why—what?” It’s not what you expected.

“Melkor is—known for corrupting maiar to his service,” Aulë says. “He speaks honeyed words and makes grand promises of power, turning maiar away from what is good.

“If he is returned, he will, without doubt, attempt to sway others.”

And your lord believes he will not try to convert you? It is not pride that your lord trusts you which you feel, but anger—he believes you are not strong enough, not clever enough, not useful enough to be wanted. Why would he give you this task, if not because he does not believe you important enough to be noticed?

This is not true, though you do not know this. The truth is this: Aulë believes you to be loyal, devoted, and he has faith—oh so much faith—in you. He believes you would never betray him.

But you do not know that, and you never will.

You put that thought out of your mind, or at least try to, but it will stay with you for a long time yet.

You tell your lord you will act as best as you can, that you will not allow any of your siblings to disappear. You intend to do your task and do it well—perhaps then he will see you are enough.

But your thoughts return to your acquaintance at the lake—he would not think so lowly of you, of this you are certain.

* * *

Gearë has, since the days of the mine collapse, become your main source of reliable news.

You ask her: “what is to become of the garden?”

She sighs.

“Lady Yavanna is trying to undo the damage,” she says. “Little progress is being made.”

“What could do such a thing?” If your acquaintance truly is Melkor—no, it does not bear thinking of—

“They think it was the Dark Lord,” she says.

You were expecting that.

“He’s returned?” you demand.

“I don’t know,” she says.

A pause, then she continues: “Most likely, the garden will be torn up and replanted. It will not go back, not like this.”

“How come?”

“I don’t know,” she says, and changes the conversation to something more mundane.

Your acquaintance cannot be Melkor, you refuse to believe that. You grasp at straws, trying to find one thing, just one thing which would disprove your theory.

You think of Orfan’s description of him, and you think of your acquaintance—they look nothing alike, but can flesh not be shaped with a thought? It means nothing.

There is only one thing left to do, then—ask him.

* * *

You don’t get a chance to return to your lake for some time. Eönwë approaches you, out of the blue.

“Mairon!” he exclaims. “Just the maia I was looking for.”

“Well, I’m here,” you say. “Like always. Since I’m usually here. I mean—did you want something?”

“You asked, earlier, about learning to fight,” he says, unusually somber. “You’re right, it’s probably a good idea for you to learn to defend yourself.”

“You never know what could happen!” you say.

“After this challenge of my lord Manwë’s authority, no one knows what could happen next,” he says. “My lord will soon announce, once more details are finalized, that every maia will learn how to fight.”

“Everyone?” That means you definitely won’t be spending more time with Eönwë.

“Yes,” he says.

“Thank you for telling me,” you say.

“I thought you ought to know early,” he says. “It was your idea which began this, and I know you like to be prepared for everything.”

“Oh,” you say, blushing. “Thank you.”

“I heard you were in the garden,” he says. “When it happened.”

“Yes,” you say. “It was startling, to say the least. I don’t even know why I fell asleep—that doesn’t usually happen when I’m designing.”

“I know,” he says. He sighs. “You weren’t here for the war, were you?”

“No,” you say. “I wasn’t.”

You would’ve been useless if you were. You would’ve been disembodied in three seconds, probably.

“He has—a share in the powers of the Valar,” Eönwë says, hesitantly. “The Dark Lord, I mean. That he should be able to put you to sleep is—not unexpected.”

“So it’s confirmed, then? It was him?”

“There can be no one else.”

“Was it just him or—did he bring others?”

“I doubt it,” Eönwë says. “To come so close to the heart of Almaren, to so thoroughly destroy Lady Yavanna’s work, to do so undetected, _and_ to bring servants? No, I doubt it.”

Then, from a distance, a snatch of song—Lord Manwë’s you think.

Eönwë tilts his head, listening.

“Well, time to gather the maiar,” he says. “Shall we go?”

“I can’t fly,” you say.

“I’ll take you.”

And before you can respond, he’s gripped you by your upper arms, lifting you into the air with a powerful stroke of his wings.

You’re flying. You laugh, somewhat nervously, but it’s exhilarating, with the wind gliding in your face and the whole world spread before you.

“You enjoy it?”

“Yes,” you say, giddy. “If only I could fly”—you remember who you’re talking to—“but Eru has destined me for the ground, so perhaps I should stay there.”

“Perhaps,” Eönwë says.

“Do you think there will be war again?”

Eönwë looks at you.

“I hope not,” he says.

That kills your conversation somewhat, and when Eönwë lands in front of your lord’s halls and delivers his message summoning the maiar to the pavilion, you part ways with him.

The pavilion is packed when you get there, much to your great displeasure. You’re stuck near the back, squished between two maiar of Lord Irmo. It’s not your preferred location—far from it. You’d rather be closer to the front, to the side, somewhere you’re not trapped.

The announcement is as Eönwë had said, without anything unexpected. Each maia is to be placed in a group, depending on their abilities, and trained, once every few days. There are few details about what the training will entail, though you desperately wish to know.

You will simply have to wait.

* * *

You return to your lake twice more, prepared to confront your acquaintance, but twice you find no one there. It is to be expected, you try to tell yourself. Lord Manwë and the others have increased their vigilance, and perhaps it would be dangerous, ill advised to venture here.

It doesn’t stop you from being annoyed.

The third time you visit, he is already there, sitting on your rock.

“Hi,” you call from a distance, not wanting to startle him.

“Mairon,” he says, turning to you. “Are you well?”

“Am I—well? Why would I not be?”

He looks at a loss for words.

Then it hits you: he’s making small talk.

“Oh, I am—well, I mean, thank you for asking,” you say, hastily. “And you?”

“Yes,” he says. “I am well, and better now that you are here.”

“Not tired from jaunts through Lady Yavanna’s garden?”

“No,” he says. Then: “did you like it?”

“The—garden? Oh, yes, it was very nice,” you say. “Shame about the metal, though, since it seems a waste to just let it rust.”

He chuckles, slightly.

“Not overly fond of plants, are you?”

“I don’t think much about them,” you say. “And you?”

“I always thought there was much more potential to them than Yavanna would allow,” he says. “Some are quite nice but others are—downright uninspired.”

He must see the look on your face, because he says: “but nevermind that. Will you come sit?”

You do.

“It’s my rock,” you say, somewhat petulantly.

“I beg your pardon?”

“This rock,” you say, “it’s mine. Not—yours.”

“Everything in this world ought to be mine,” he says, and oh there is really no denying that he’s the Dark Lord, is there. You _will_ ask him, soon.

“Not this rock,” you say. “This is mine.”

“Of everything in the world,” he says slowly, “you would choose a rock?”

“Yes,” you say.

“Very well,” he says. “This is your rock.”

You’re satisfied—very satisfied that you can claim something as yours, and have it acknowledge as yours.

Feeling victorious, you turn to him.

“You still haven’t told me your name,” you say.

“No, I have not.”

“Will you tell me?”

He hesitates.

“I won’t—run away or anything,” you say.

“No,” he says.

“Why not?”

“Because I said so.”

You laugh, incredulous, thinking he’s joking, but he’s completely serious.

“Your name,” you say, no longer asking.

A pause, and it’s then that you realize: perhaps you should not have been so forceful.

But he answers.

“Melkor,” he says. “My name is Melkor.”

A pause.

“You are not surprised?”

“I was expecting as much.”

“And yet you would still demand it of me.”

“Yes,” you say. As an afterthought: “Should I not have?”

“I am glad to see you take what you want,” he says, “and yet you cross lines I would not allow others to.”

That’s a surprise.

“Why allow me this, then?”

What makes you special—and oh what a feeling that is, to be special.

“Because you are—unlike any other I have ever met,” he says.

A pause, then: “Are you not afraid?”

“Of you?” you ask. “If you were going to disembody me, you would’ve done so a long time ago.”

“Death is not the worst that can happen,” Melkor says.

“What is, then?” you ask. “Failing your duty?”

He laughs, bitterly.

“Being alone,” he says.

You don’t know what to say to that, so you place a hand on his arm.

“You deserve better,” you say, not quite sure what drives you.

He doesn’t reply.

You sit there in silence, the two of you, and watch the waves crash on the rocks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> man i have no idea what melkor wants. He remains a whole mystery. Hopefully he was not too ooc


	6. Of weapons and trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Valar prepare for conflict with Melkor, while Mairon comes into conflict with several others.

Aulë’s office is a cozy place, though spacious, nestled beside his forge. The walls are made of brown stone, cut into perfectly shaped blocks and covered in tapestries of all colours—iridescent red and luminous silver and a rich, deep brown. There are no windows, but there are spherical orbs of light that hang from the ceiling, casting the room in a warm glow.

The large desk, chairs, and shelves are made of stone, carved with intricate designs. Small plants grown in the corners of the room—a gift from Lady Yavanna.

You are summoned here, from your forge, and so you sit in one of the five chairs opposite Aulë’s seat, closest to the door. You are early, by a few minutes, so there is no one else here. You take the time to study your surroundings—the stone sculptures on the shelves, various metal trinkets, and other assorted gifts.

Another maia—Gearë—arrives a minute early, sitting to your right, and two others—you do not know their names—arrive exactly on time, with your lord. All the chairs, save one, are filled.

“Is Curumo not here yet?” Aulë asks. “Well, I’m glad to see you all, looking so well.”

Curumo bursts through the door with a bang.

“Apologies, my lord,” he says. “I was helping Carr with some of her work.”

“Of course,” Aulë says.

Curumo looks the same as the last time you saw him—robes of pure white fabric, finely woven, looking every inch the perfect maia. He sits, and the door closes.

“I’ve asked the five of you to come for a serious matter,” Aulë says, unusually somber. “As you know, Melkor has made an attempt to undermine Manwë’s authority, and it has been decided that every maia will learn to fight.

“Beyond that, however, there may be need of weapons. You will recall from the last war that while some were able to create them from thought, there were many others who weren’t.

“I’ve asked you to come because I wish for you to design and craft weapons.”

That is an entirely unforeseen request.

“I know that we pride ourselves in not keeping secrets, but this project is to be kept between those of us in this room. I trust that you, my brightest, most loyal will ensure this information doesn’t fall into the wrong hands.”

There’s a warm feeling in your chest, that your lord trusts you, that he believes you are competent enough to do such a thing.

“Why is he here?” one of the maiar you don’t recognize ask, pointing at you.

You freeze.

“Mairon is here because I believe him to be capable,” he says, evenly.

“There is a store of weapons in Manwë’s halls,” Aulë continues. “They’ll be brought to you, and you will do your best to improve them.

A pause.

“Where will we go to do this?” you ask. “If this is to be in secret, I do not believe the common rooms would suffice.”

“Ah, there’s plenty of empty rooms here,” Ale says. “You can pick one that you like.”

A consensus is eventually reached, but the room is not one that you like. It’s at the end of the building, with windows on three sides—there’s little real privacy, save for some curtains. It’s on the fourth floor—preferred for the craftsmaiar, yes, but a precarious position should experiments fail. There’s a forge, large enough for everyone, and a design room. 

You hardly think it’s the best choice, particularly for experimenting, but the other four chose it—they’re craftsmaiar, mostly, designing in the theoretical so you shouldn’t be so surprised—and you have no option to concede.

Your choice is on the first floor, tucked into a corner. It’s smaller, without windows, but still spacious—there’s a single workspace, with a high ceiling and strong walls to withstand accidents. There are two storerooms—the large is the perfect size for a makeshift bedroom, should work go on too long.

It does not have the beauty of the other room, no, but it is much more practical.

You can’t tell if you’re excited to begin or dread it—Gearë, you can work with, but the others? You doubt your collaboration will be effective.

* * *

You tell your concerns to Melkor, as you usually do, without thinking much of it—then you realize the top secret nature of the project.

“It’s a shame, that they do not listen to you,” he says. “What was it that you’re making?”

“Jewellery,” you say.

“Jewellery,” he repeats, flatly.

“Yes,” you say. “Very important jewellery.”

He doesn’t look convinced.

“How bold of you,” he says, “to lie to me.”

“I do not,” you say.

“You may tell that to your Aulë,” he says. “But you do not fool me.”

“I won’t say,” you say.

“You don’t trust me,” he remarks.

“I don’t.”

“You would tell what you don’t tell anyone else, and yet keep your lord’s secrets?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

And that is a question you have been asking yourself for a long time now. You think of what Eönwë might say.

“You’re the Dark Lord,” you say, though you’re not entirely convinced yourself. “You go against the wishes of Eru and destroy the works of my lord.”

You don’t sound like Eönwë—you sound like _Curumo_ and that is annoying.

“Is that so?” he asks. “Are you not the same? Is not all that you want counter to my father’s desires? And are the things I create in my siblings’ stead not infinitely more beautiful? They would stifle their creations, their maiar, not allow them to grow free.

“They say I am wrong simply because I have desires of my own, against that of others, simply because I desire to have my own. Am I not the mightiest of the Valar, and eldest? This should be mine yet my brother would deny me it, would deny me so much as a dwelling, a throne, my rightful position.”

You can’t breathe.

“Am I evil?” he asks, as though genuinely seeking an answer.

“I—I don’t—” You don’t understand the emotions that he stirs in you.

He sighs.

“If I am to be called evil, simply for wanting, then so be it.”

“But you” —you don’t know what to say— “wish to dominate others.”

“Do you not the same?” he asks. “To not only be acknowledged but to command others? To have others carry our your desires, your will? Do you not want control?”

You think of the mine. You think of directing your fellow maiar—you think of the inefficiencies stemming from going counter to your wishes, of orders other than your own.

“You and I, we have a vision for Arda of our own, counter to Eru’s as it might be. Will you condemn me for that?”

Silence. You can’t think of words to say.

A flash of—what, hurt? Disappointment, regret? —in his eyes.

“I have business to attend to,” he says, standing.

He never leaves first.

“This is goodbye, then,” he says. “If we should meet again—”

You can’t let him leave.

“I had a hill,” you say. He looks puzzled, but he doesn’t leave. “Before Almaren was created, I made a hill of my own design. It was mine. It did not—fit with the rest of the world. They called it your work—I’m sorry for—anyways, what I mean to say is that—if you’re evil, then so am I.”

You think you’ve managed to render him speechless.

“Just when I thought I knew everything I needed to about you,” he says, “you manage to surprise me.”

“Thanks,” you say, for lack of better words.

You sit in silence, for a while, trying to digest his words, his actions.

What does he want?

“Will you tell me what you’re making?” he asks.

“No,” you say, instead of lying.

“You don’t trust me,” he says.

“No,” you say. “You tried to seduce Ossë—you succeeded with so many others. How can I trust you? What do you want from me?”

“I want—you intrigue me,” he says. “Never have I met someone like you. Of course I want you to be mine.”

The declaration should scare you and yet—and yet—there is so much he could give you.

You want—you want—you have your lord’s confidence for not one but two projects; you are known by Eönwë; you could have greatness here, could you not?

Maybe this could be enough.

(It isn’t. It won’t be. You could have the world and it wouldn’t be enough.)

“You could be lying,” you say.

“I do not,” he says. Then: “I swear to you that I will _never_ lie to you. Though my words may be harsh, they will never be untrue.”

“I believe you,” you say, almost against your will. “I believe you.”

You do. You do.

“I can’t tell you,” you say. “I—I can’t betray my lord like that. I won’t say a word about what you say to me—that stays here—but I can’t. I won’t.”

“Swear it,” he says. “That our conversations remain between the two of us.”

Some oaths are binding. This one, you will be bound to.

“I swear,” you say, then you’re enveloped by—Melkor’s power is nigh tangible, fire and ice and darkness, like smoke in your lungs. It leaves you trembling from its intensity. Abruptly, it recedes, leaving you achingly empty.

You are bound to your word now, in a way bound to him—but not quite. Not yet.

“Will I see you around?” he asks.

“Of course,” you say. “I’m not leaving so easily.”

“Good,” he says.

You leave.

* * *

The training schedule is, in your opinion, highly inefficient, as though whoever created it couldn’t determine how likely war is. It is hastily pushed through, so many details left unfinalized, as though a short delay could prove disastrous, yet sessions are spaced out and take the place of the third of each day dedicated to work—it negates much of the usefulness, to be so underprepared.

The first training session proves to be disastrous. There’s fifty of you, all maiar of Aulë, and Ficerë, maia of Manwë is in charge.

Half the participants are late—you, of course, were early, as usual—and they’re poorly disciplined, joking and playing even as Ficerë attempts to get started.

You wish you could yell at them, whack them with a stick, or even demand obedience, but that is not the way things are done here.

You think of Melkor: do not want control?

You do—he tells the truth—especially now, and you wish they would do what you want. But you cannot act on it—should they know—it does not bear thinking of.

Before, in the time before Melkor, you would’ve told yourself: you are wrong to wish this, but now there is doubt in your mind.

Is it truly wrong? Are you truly wrong?

Eventually the group manages to get started, though a large portion of time has been wasted.

Most of what you do is work with your physical body, and practice with song. Cooperation is essential, apparently, so you spend time singing together, allowing your thought to flow together and cohere. It’s difficult to not give away the subtle changes in your song, but you manage.

You finish feeling more like a part of the mass of maiar rather than an individual, having learned little other than the limits of your body.

Those limits are worrying, to say the least. It had not bothered you, in earlier days, but it does now. You are a creature of song, of drums like the ringing of hammers, but it is your body that allows you to interact with the physical world, to construct tools and surpass the abilities of those with more power than you.

It had been enough, then, limited by your spirit as you were. But now, to recognize the limitations of your body, to know that it does not adequately serve your needs? It is not so easy for you to shape matter anew, to build yourself a body on a whim.

No, this is yours, and yours to remain.

* * *

“My lord believes there will be another war,” you tell Melkor.

“Does he?” he says, amused. “He believes a garden to be a declaration of war?”

“Well, he said maybe,” you say. “Will you?”

“Do what?”

“Fight them.”

“One day, yes,” he says, simply. “If they choose to continue like this.”

A pause.

“Why ask?”

“We—well, the maiar as a whole have been receiving training,” you say, feeling like you’re giving away a deep secret though you know it’s common knowledge by now.

“I am aware,” he says.

“I was just wondering how urgent the need is.”

A pause.

“Would you fight me?” he asks.

“I would have no chance of winning,” you say.

“Not personally,” he says. “Against me and mine.”

You hesitate. You don’t want to.

You say as much.

“I’d probably try to get disembodied early on,” you say. “Avoid the actual fighting.”

“Sometimes I forget how little you know,” he says.

A rush of anger flares.

“Then teach me,” you say.

He considers it.

“In the war,” he says, “there was very little—respite. Mostly, maiar who were disembodied were immediately reembodied and sent to fight. You wouldn’t avoid anything like that.”

“So what was the point, then?” you ask. “If killing made no difference.”

“A distraction, perhaps,” he says. “It would depend on numbers, for the most part.”

You think about that.

“Why allow disembodied maiar to reembody, then?” you ask. “Why not keep them?”

There is no word for capture, not yet—it is a new concept you have stumbled upon, the act of keeping prisoner.

“That way, there can be—a change.”

“Clever,” he says. He considers your idea. “Yes, it would certainly change many things, though—to implement it in reality may require some work.”

A pause.

“How would you do it?”

That he would ask for your opinion is a compliment like no other.

You spend the rest of the break period conversing, sharing ideas and possible experiments.

It doesn’t cross your mind to tell your lord.

* * *

Another time, another conversation:

“I wish—I had more power,” you say.

“What do you wish to accomplish?”

“I don’t—this physical body of mine,” you say. “It’s not as strong as I would’ve hoped.”

“Yet there are plenty of things it can achieve,” he counters. “Your forgework, for one.”

You find it difficult at times to see what you’re good at, caught up as you are in what needs to be improved.

“And as for other things?” you say. “Speed? Agility? Do you think I can achieve that with this body?”

“Some may come from practice,” he says. “And others, it is true. You are limited by the shape you choose.”

“If only I could choose differently,” you say, but for the most part, it is not up to you.

“There is—a way,” he says. “Though perhaps not entirely pleasant.”

Your interest is piqued.

“How so?”

“To change shape is to create anew—new molecules in new positions,” he says. “And yet it is not in the positioning that poses the most difficulty, but the creation of new molecules. If you were to rearrange what you have—flesh and blood and bone, you may have a new shape.

“An analogy, if you will: certainly you may choose to, each time you wish for new clothes, to create a new set from cotton fibres, and spin them into thread, and weave cloth, and finally sew. Or, you could take what you have, and alter it so that it appears how you want it to.”

You consider his words.

“How do I do it?”

He shows you, with the crunch of bone and squelch of flesh. It does not look—entirely pleasant.

“The mechanism is simple,” he says. “Though if you are dedicated, attempt it with something else, first.”

You begin with rocks, which are easy. You worked with them, long ago, when you were creating your hill, and you know their song.

Melkor then brings you plants, and you struggle with them, though you study their veins and cells with great interest. There are many more parts to a plant, epidermal tissue and stems and vascular tissue too.

Your first plants are a mess, breaking apart as soon as you let go. Others are misshapen, far from what you want them to look like. You take to practicing your own, plucking flowers from pots and leaves from trees.

Your five hundredth attempt makes the shape you want, though it does not resemble a plant. Your six hundred and twelfth attempt succeeds, and you present it to Melkor, though you know you are still far from where you wish to be.

He tasks you with keeping the plant alive, next.

Your interest in plants begins to attract Lady Yavanna’s maiar, and as you continue to study them—how they absorb water and nutrients and lamplight—you realize you need an excuse for your fascination.

Training for fighting has concluded by now, a measly ten sessions later, and you’ve learned little except that there is little strategy involved, for maiar of your power.

You turn your attention and jewellery to the shapes of leaves and flowers, and hope that those who watch you study plants believe you to wish to improve your skills.

Your new designs are soft things, with gently curved petals and quiet lines. They’re the often seen shapes in Lady Yavanna’s gardens, but as you spend more time there, you see the plants along the edges, with defensive thorns and poisonous sap.

You base some jewellery on them, but it is only Lady Yavanna’s maiar who seem to appreciate them.

There is beauty in the wild things, this you know no matter your love for order. There is potential here, though it will never be known.

Your plants don’t live long after they’ve shifted. The failure grates on you, a pounding mantra of _not enough_.

Your work with weapons begins, and true to your suspicions, you seem only to be able to collaborate with Gearë. After a few initial arguments—the other three don’t think much of you—you split into two groups. Curumo’s experiments with swords, a well tested and established weapon. There is only refinement to do there—how to keep blades sharp, and strong, and useful.

Meanwhile, you study makeshift weapons—sticks and forge hammers and small bits of rock. It’s difficult, yes, and rarely rewarding. When your lord comes to ask of progress, Curumo often has results and you do not. You suspect, perhaps, that you were given this because they want you to fail.

You seethe in silence.

One day you will surpass their work.

There’s potential in their makeshift nature, though the design still eludes you.

How you wish you could discuss them with Melkor. His insights into your experiments with changing shape has been invaluable, and discussions on capturing maiar are the highlights of your days. He’s begun experiments, though they are limited by his lack of presence in Arda.

“They might not notice if you return quietly,” you say, speaking of the Valar. “They don’t really go to the edges of the world.”

“Perhaps,” he says. “But I will not skulk in the shadows like a criminal.”

You think differently—you would rather be here, hidden than not—but it is not your pride on the line. It is not your place to argue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, feedback and comments are very welcome!!
> 
> thanks for reading :)
> 
> (as you may notice, there's a chapter count now!! yes, i hope to finish this in around 15 chapters, but we shall see)


	7. Of a celebration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Almaren prepares for new year's. Mairon feels alienated.

You knew the workspace wasn’t a good idea, and now comes the consequences of choosing such a location. They’re using a volatile metal—you’re not sure it’s a good idea, and you say as much, but your suggestion is quickly rejected—and then someone makes the mistake of heating it up.

It explodes. Violently.

You’re a distance away, and you’re thrown to the ground, a shower of broken glass and chunks of rubble falling over you.

Then—the floor collapses, and you fall down to the ground below you. You hit the surface with a thud, knocking the air out of your lungs. Chunks of stone dig into your back, and you shield yourself from the rest of the rubble—not well enough because you’re knocked into unconsciousness.

You wake in a soft bed, gauze wrapped around your throbbing ribs. Taking a breath _hurts_ , and you head pounds and it feels as though stuffed with cotton.

You’re in Lady Estë’s halls, you think. Healing from the explosion.

The room is cozy, with soothing grey walls and windows, lamplight streaming in. there’s a door, to your left. There are four beds, all occupied by those in the room—except the dark haired maia, the one who caused the explosion.

Your injuries aren’t severe, you confirm when a maia comes by to check on you. A few cracked ribs, bruises, and a concussion, but nothing that won’t soon heal.

You go back to sleep. There’s food when you wake, a rich, savoury soup and warm bread.

Gearë is awake, next to you, sitting morosely and sipping her soup.

“I was right,” you say to her. “That metal shouldn’t have been heated.”

“Right,” she says, absentmindedly.

“And I was right about the room,” you continue. “We should’ve used something more stable, somewhere such as, you know, the first floor.

“That’s enough,” Curumo says, in the bed diagonal to you. “There’s no need to—what’s done is done.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean—”

You’re cut off.

“Angwë’s dead, and you’re talking about how right you were,” the other maia—the blonde—says.

“Who?”

The other maia tries to rise, but can’t, and settles for spitting instead, “my partner.”

Oh. the dark haired maia. Him.

“I can’t believe you don't know his name,” she says.

“Well, I don’t know yours either,” you say, trying to lessen her incredulity.

“You—”

She’s mad.

The door opens and Aulë walks in.

“I’m glad to see you all well,” he says. “I was worried I’d lose another maia.”

“What of Angwë?” the blonde sas.

“Aulë sighs.

“In the care of Námo, for now,” he says. “It may be awhile before he returns to us. He was—very close to the explosion.”

Ah. Ripped into multiple pieces, then.

“It’s been traumatic for everyone involved,” your lord continues. “Why don’t you all take some time and rest?”

You leave early, when your cracked ribs have barely healed. You lie about your pain, if only so you can get back to work, get out of this room of people who do not like you.

* * *

Sometimes you sit on your rock, next to your lake, in silence, with Melkor. Of course, there are plenty of times when you converse, of course, and the topics you speak about range from lighthearted discussions about sartorial taste—your lack of attention to clothing and his almost over dramatic robes—to the borderline blasphemous—Eru, free will, and the Children to come.

But it is the silence that you love best, the quiet moments when it’s just the ambient wind and water and occasional crash of rock, when neither of you speak—neither of you need to speak—and you sit, comfortable in his presence, comfortable in your own sense of self, comfortable in your knowledge that everything is—will be—okay.

There’s a quiet sense of intimacy, vulnerability if you could ever use that word to describe either of you.

There’s no one else you could sit quietly with.

Here, amid the chaos, you can almost find—peace.

It is usually you who breaks the silence, whether with words of parting or the result of some contemplation.

This time, however, it is Melkor.

“I wanted,” he says, then stops, and starts again. “I had—still have, perhaps—a vision for this world. It is _nothing_ like the world that is.

“This world, it is—symmetrical, clean cut lines and carefully drawn boundaries, stagnant. This place, before it was a lake, was rock—a small mountain. But I would’ve had a river here, too, carving a slow path through the sedimentary rock, and over millions of years it would’ve formed a canyon.”

You try to imagine the canyon as it could have been: a shimmering snaking ribbon of water running beneath layers upon layers of rock, branching and twisting as it grows, edges jagged like thousands and thousands of fractals. Not a gash in the earth like a wound, but a living thing, organic and ever changing.

“That sounds beautiful,” you say.

“And even afterwards,” he says, “even if I couldn’t be around to watch it grow, it would still change on its own. Can you imagine it? Having your works continue on their own without your interference, without your instruction?”

To leave a legacy that continues ever onwards even without you?

“What is legacy to an immortal?” you ask, rhetorically.

He looks at you, sad, as though he knows something you don’t, as though he hears the clock ticking down to some point in time.

“More than you could know,” he says, and it’s like all the breath has been knocked out of your lungs.

“There’s a rumour,” you say, “that in a final battle between you and—the others, this world will end.”

“I am who I am,” he says. “For am I not entropy, who was once change? As rock is worn from cliffs to dust, so does everything in this world. So everything, no matter how great, diminishes, and falls. And so everything ends.

“There is no battle that is needed. That I am and will forever be a part of this world is enough.”

“I think I understand,” you say.

* * *

Consistent festivities are somewhat an oddity, in Almaren. The maiar are not accustomed to linear time, though they are subject to it, and the minimal variation in intensity of lamplight and unchanging nature of Almaren makes it rather difficult to keep track of the passing of time.

Certainly, breaks for sleep occur—are encouraged—but they’re suggestions rather than the rule, and often ignored both by maiar at play and—at work, as you do.

Festivities, as such, tend to be spontaneous—announced and organized in a matter of weeks, if not days.

There is, despite this, a single consistent festivity: the celebration of the new year, of the creation of the world by Eru.

It’s prepared for months in advance, with new jewellery and clothing commissioned, decorations and events meticulously planned.

Eonwe had approached you early, and you had shown him your necklace design, the one with sapphires and diamonds and silver. He’d been surprised, pleasantly so, and you’d set to making it as soon as you left Lady Este’s halls. It had been gorgeous—your best piece, to date.

As for yourself, a multi strand gold and ruby necklace—one of your early works, but never worn—should suffice. You’d traded a maia of Vaire for your clothes—silver bangles, embedded with opal for a simple red silk tunic with metal buttons. You might’ve gotten something more eye-catching, embroidered perhaps, or draped in a different cut, but it is not your intention to have everyone notice you. In fact, you almost wish nobody would—you would not have to suffer through hours of pleasantries with people you barely know, or watch performances you care little for.

Orfan had tried to rope you into a performance with other maiar of Aule, but you had, in no uncertain terms, refused.

On the day of the new year’s celebration, you will look plain, but it is of no great importance to you. Your physical body is but a tool, one you do not need yet.

New year’s day arrives with great fanfare, with loud songs both sung and played on simple instruments. Some are percussive—the clang of metal on rock—and others airy—wind blown through hollow reeds—while yet more are the sounds made from a physical body—the impact of hands, and feet. You make your way outside, a smile and aura of joy imitating those around you.

There are few maiar gathered around your lord’s halls, but as you head towards the thrones of the Valar and the pavilion just north of it, the number—and density—increases.

There’ s food, and drink too, and you pick up a goblet of—wine, you think, better than most you’ve ever had—if only to have a way to avoid conversation. It helps, as you’re dragged into a debate about which flower is most beautiful by a fellow smith. You have no particular interest in flowers—only keeping them alive after you've shifted them—and your wine proves more than capable of providing a reason not to talk.

The performances are more interesting than you’d admit—choreographed dances with silk ribbon spinning like a living thing, with the graceful twirl of shining metal swords, with water suspended in orbs thrown through the air. Some, though, are—unfortunate. A maia with a questionable sense of humour attempts to tell jokes and, out of a profound sense of embarrassment for the other, you leave.

There’s food on tables, small bowls of tossed greens and freshly baked bread, flaky buttery pastries and smoked fish. 

A maia—one of Yavanna’s—approaches you. You hastily grab more wine—this must be your fourth glass of the day, but she doesn’t look deterred.

“It’s such a beautiful day, isn't’ it?” she says.

You make small talk for another while.

“I was just watching the performance,” you say.

“Over at the pavilion?” she asks, over excited. “What was happening?”

“Jokes,” you say, not sharing her excitement. “Though I must confess—they were not—along my sense of humour.”

“No?” she asks. “Were they good?”

“Not particularly,” you say. Then, “he should not be performing them.”

The words slip out of your mouth without a second though—you must’ve had too much wine.

She looks shocked.

“You can’t just—” she splutters. “That’s—rude.”

“Perhaps I—”

“You shouldn’t discourage people, you know,” she continues. “Just because someone’s not particularly talented doesn’t mean you have to tell them to stop.”

It wasn’t discouragement you were thinking of—you know well enough that you, too, started somewhere. But you hardly presented your own work before you—and several others—had reviewed it, made sure it was at the very least pleasing, if not extraordinary. You, at least, made sure your work awas polished—not the stuttering mess of the other maia.

You don’t say that, though.

“Do you seriously—” she huffs in annoyance. “ _I’m_ going to watch the performance. Feel free _not_ to follow me.”

You watch her go.

You wonder how she would’ve reacted if she’d heard the hidden parts of you speak, if she knew what you said and thought of the other maia of Aulë.

There are maiar all around you, walking, talking, laughing, dancing. They surround you on all sides, gathered in groups on the path and on the grass, but even like this, you are alone. You are surrounded and you are alone.

Like there’s a panel of glass between them and you, you watch them, there but not a part of them.

They talk of things you care not about; they laugh in ways you cannot find in yourself to do; there are so many of them and you cannot feel more alone if you were the only person in the world.

Not for the first time, but never quite so acutely, you miss Melkor.

You down your wine.

When the call goes out for maiar to gather in the pavilion, you follow the crowd and jostle for a spot on the edge, where you can leave unobstructed.

The Valar make speeches, similar to the year before. You wait for it to finish, and the dancing to start so you can slip away, quietly, back to your workspace to finish some notes on knives.

Lord Manwë, last to speak, finishes his speech, and music begins—a lively song, with a fast tempo.

You dance for a few songs, if only so you’ll have an excuse should anyone ask. You’ve just excused yourself from your latest partner, making your way to the edge of the pavilion when a shadow passes overhead, moving towards the front.

All movement and music stops.

Lord Manwë stands.

The shadow coalesces before Lord Manwë in a striking show of ultraviolet and lightning.

Melkor.

A gasp and a murmur runs through the crowd.

He looks the same as he did at your lake, and you don’t know why that surprises you, but it does.

This time, however, he does not try to hide his power. It rolls from him in waves, like smoke.

“Brother,” he says, as a greet to Lord Manwë.

“Why had you come?” Manwë demands.

“Can I not share in the festivities with you?” Melkor asks. “Can I, too, not celebrate the creation of the world?”

Lord Manwë considers his words.

“Of course,” he says. “Though the festivities have mostly—ended.”

“Well,” Melkor says, “some are better than none.”

Lady Varda narrows her eyes at him, but says nothing.

“Please, do continue,” Melkor says. “Don’t let me stop you dancing.”

Hesitantly, the music starts up again, and the dancing too.

You don’t leave, not the way you planned to. What is he doing here?

He’s conversing with Lord Manwë now, quietly. There’s a brief struggle between curiosity and fear that goes on in you, but curiosity wins out.

You make your way towards them, trying to listen. You place yourself within earshot, much closer than you would’ve liked in the clamour of the crowd, and hope that Melkor doesn’t notice you. Or—do you hope that he does?

Do you not dance?” Melkor asks.

“Very rarely,” Manwë replies.

“Shall we, then?” Melkor asks, this time to Varda.

“No,” she says.

Melkor laughs.

“Pity,” he says.

“Yavanna’s garden,” Varda says.

“Yes?”

“What did you do to it?”

“Consider it—a gift,” he says.

“Hardly,” Varda says.

“Do you not find it more beautiful?” he asks.

“No, “she says.

“Brother, tell me,” Manwë says, “how can it be undone?”

“It can’t,” Melkor says. “No going back, only—forward.”

A pause. “If you will not dance, perhaps another,” Melkor says. To the Lady Nienna: “would you care to dance?”

You follow him with your eyes—Lord Manwë does the same—and you watch him dance in the crowd of maiar.

“Not an expected sight, is it?” a maia of Ulmo asks, to your right.

You turn, startled.

“No,” you say.

They ask to dance, and you can’t decline, so you take their hand and join the crowd. You have to focus on the steps, however, and in the multitude of turns and dips, you lose track of Melkor. It doesn’t matter. He’s not here for you anyways.

You excuse yourself after the song ends, and turn to leave, then—

“May I have this dance?”

He’s standing right behind you.

“Uh,” you say.

In the corner of your eye, you can see your lord approaching you.

“Yes,” you say. “But I’m not a good dancer.”

“That’s quite alright,” he says.

The music starts again, this time slow and lyrical.

Melkor takes your hand in his, wraps his other arm around your waist, and pulls you close. You put your other arm around his shoulder.

He is very close to you. In all your conversations, you’ve never been this distance from him, close enough to see the detailed stitches of his clothes, close enough to smell the scents of smoke and glacial ice that clings to him. You’ve never been close enough to feel the warmth of his body.

“I um, it’s nice to see you here,” you say, as he leads you into a gentle sway, from side to side, in time with the rhythm. What parts of your mind still function focus on not stepping on him.

“We can dance in silence, if you’d prefer,” he says—a relief, for you, though you know it would be considered rude among your peers.

You stare at his broad shoulders as he switches to a back and forth movement, and you miscalculate your step—bump into his chest—step back to get some distance, only to be caught by his arm. Your face flushes red.

“Sorry,” you say.

“No need to apologize.”

Then he begins to move, in earnest, taking wide steps in a circular motion. The pressure of his arm around your waist pushes you, though gently, in his direction of movement.

You’re beginning to get the hang of it, and the speed of the turns brings a giddy rush in your chest.

You’re smiling, almost against your will.

You glance up, and Melkor’s looking at you with—you can’t quite make out the expression of his face—and a faint smile.

“I’m going to dip you,” he says, as the music draws to an end.

You barely have time to process his words before you drop backwards. You think you’re going to hit the ground but no—he catches you, holds you there as your heart pounds in exhilaration, until the final note fades.

He brings you up, fast enough that you stumble, a hand and cheek on his chest.

You stay there for a time, stunned, too disoriented to think of anything but him.

The moment fades, and you pull away, excuses on your lips.

“Until next time,” he says, quietly, so that only you can hear.

Then Melkor disappears, leaving just empty air before you. You stand there for long moments, desperately trying to process what just happened, and the aching sense of loss.

Aulë hurries towards you.

“Mairon, are you quite alright?” he asks, concerned.

“Yes,” you say. “Just—surprised.”

“Come, sit,” Aulë says, leading you to the side. He hands you a glass of wine, and you sit on a nearby bench.

“You needn’t feel pressured to cave in to his whims,” Aulë says. “I _will_ protect you, should he—dislike your answer.”

“I know,” you say. “I was simply—taken off guard.”

A pause.

“No harm done,” you say. “Just a little dizzy.”

“What did you want from you?” Aulë asks.

“I don’t—he didn’t say,” you say, and your lord accepts that answer.

It’s a question you still can’t quite answer but—you think of his words, before: _I want you to be mine_.

And you think, for the first time and not for the last, that you might rather enjoy it.

* * *

With the end of New Year festivities comes the return to regular life, though you wonder if you return to a time before the dance and the feelings Melkor stirs in you.

You begin to wonder, then, what good it is, to remain here, working with maiar who neither like nor understand you, with a lord who does not—appreciate you.

You were meant for him, you tell yourself. Your song rings with his, beating the same steady rhythm. You vowed, so long ago, to serve him as best as you could.

Your loyalty belongs to Aulë, you tell yourself. And he—trusts you

You report to him with the task he has given you—none of your siblings are missing.

Your lord smiles at you, tells you that you did a good job, tells you to continue keeping track.

You leave, wishing for the warm feeling his praise gave you, so long ago—and it’s there, but nothing like what Melkor stirs with but a glance.

You might leave, you think. You might—defect.

But the thought fills you with a wild horror, and you wish you were not Aule’s maia; you wish you had been his.

You want—you want—there is so much you want.

You can have it here, you tell yourself, not for the first time. You can be loved. You can be acknowledged. You can have more power—you can hone all of your abilities.

But though you say that to yourself, the words ring false.

And as you continue to study your plants, continue to try and change their shape, you think: the Valar would never teach this skill, twisted as it is.

You belong to Lord Aulë, you tell yourself. You will be content, studying your weapons and creating your tools.

You choose, then, to stay.

You will be the best smith the world has ever known, you vow then, to yourself. You will have your name, though it was not of your choice, spoken in every corner of Arda.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> swapping updates to Sundays! also no chapter next week because of tolkien crack week.
> 
> apologies if there were weird things with this chapter's notifications because i'm still kinda figuring out ao3's system for dates


	8. Of success and failure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mairon discovers a new weapon, and the aftermath.

Angwë does not return, but you continue your research into weapons. You have a new room now, still not of your choice, and the other maia, the blonde, still refuses to speak to you. It’s no great loss—you didn’t interact with her much before, anyways.

Gearë is quiet, unusually so when she would normally be adding multiple ideas to a lively discussion, but you don’t think much of it. The silence is nice, and you don't need to spend time on pleasantries or thinking of what to say.

You work better alone, anyways.

Your studies yield a few results. Sticks can be reinforced, or made of metal, lengthened, and used to hit others. Or, they can be tipped with a metal point, used to stab opponents.

It’s not your job to come up with techniques for your new weapons, but you find Eönwë to discuss them anyways.

The more you speak with him, the less awestruck you are. He’d been a semi mythical figure, before, someone to look up to but never touch, something to aspire to but never reach.

But now he is—dare you say it?

Nothing special.

He is not like you. He has his lord’s favour; he is powerful; he is known and beloved across all of Almaren. He is content where he is, and why should he not be?

You wonder if you would be the same in his place. When will it finally be enough for you?

(never, says something deep inside you.)

It is no use dreaming. Skilled you are, and your works are admired throughout the land (though not yourself, you think snidely), but you have ways to go before you can rival him in power.

It is not yet enough for you.

You chose to stay. You wonder if you made the right choice.

You return to your lake, each time wondering how best to speak to Melkor of this, but each time you find it empty.

You leave feeling disappointed, and—to your surprise—lonely.

You miss having a confidante, having someone who knows you, who understands you.

Your conversations with Eönwë, though you often wished for such a thing in the past, seem pale in comparison, lacking a vital something.

You keep talking to him, laughing at his jokes and telling some of your own. The first time he calls you his _friend_ you don’t know how to respond, except to say that he’s your friend, too.

You wonder how true it is.

You wonder how much of what you say and do, in this web of lies you’ve constructed for yourself, this persona like a mask—you wonder much is really you.

Are you really his friend? Or is it just the face that you put forward that he likes?

And you? Is he truly your friend or just a friend of the Maia you pretend to be.

You tell yourself that you enjoy your conversations and to leave it at that.

It is during one of those conversations that you discover something new, when Eönwë tells you of the things that have occurred in the world.

Chlorine gas.

You’ve known for a long time that Lords Manwë and Ulmo have collaborated often in the past: rain, fog, the oxygen in water that sustains living animals. But this is something that is new to even Eönwë: an element that most commonly rests in the water as ions, but as gas in its pure form.

It is also deadly. Breathing it in destroys lung tissue, causing suffocation and—death.

The maiar who first experimented with it had to be healed by Lady Estë herself, and one of them was entirely disembodied.

You could use it as a weapon.

Rather than one on one combat—risky, time consuming, and exhausting—you could use this to injure or debilitate hundreds if not thousands in one stroke. You may not kill them all, no, but a damaged respiratory system, particularly so widespread a phenomenon, would be no small thing for them.

You’re not sure who _they_ are.

You don’t want to fight against Melkor, who means so much to you and yet, if not, then who?

You don’t have answers.

But after your discovery, your first thought is to tell Melkor, and though you doubt that you have the choice now, when you can’t find him, it stays in your mind—that it is not your lord’s approval which you first seek.

You leave Gearë to continue research. You tell her that there’s something you need to do on your own, and at the mention of _alone_ she doesn’t conceal her surprise, but she’s well accustomed to your eccentricities, so she doesn’t press.

You use the room you first wanted, which is thankfully still unoccupied. It’s quiet, far from the forges or communal rooms, and you move all your stuff there too, though you don’t have much.

You ask for sea water from some of Lord Ulmo’s maiar. You go to Lady Estë’s halls, where the injured still linger. You ask them what they were doing—playing with electricity and metal, in the water itself—and you take that information and go to do your own research.

You’re careful to keep your room well ventilated, with plenty of chemicals on hand to counteract the gas, if necessary—though it turns out not to be.

You only have the opportunity to experiment with how to best extract chlorine gas, not to test its effects. You doubt there would be any maiar willing to help you with that—or that your lord, or any other Vala for that matter, would let you.

There are several close calls—first when the gas collection vessels turned out to not fit well and later, when you didn’t realize hydrogen gas would be produced and a spark nearly sets it all on fire—but you get the process complete, finally. It’s not much different from copper plating metal—though there are small, but crucial variations—and you manage to produce quite a bit of chlorine gas.

You would tell Gearë of your discovery, but there isn’t time before your next meeting with Aulë.

There is so much potential here. There is so much you could do.

This is only the beginning.

* * *

You’re back in your lord’s office, with the rest of your team. You listened closely to Curumo’s speech about swords, about their alloys and heat and tools. Gearë had spoken for the two of you, talking about your new, no longer improvised weapons—spears, you’ve taken to calling them—and presenting the few you’ve already made.

“If that’s all—” Aulë tries to conclude the meeting.

“No,” you say. “There’s something I would like to add.”

You pull out your glass container of chlorine, yellow green and translucent.

You explain, then, about what Eönwë had said—though you do not mention him; you suspect he would not like to be associated with such a thing—about the maiar, and the results of your experiments.

“Of course, its use as a weapon is unable to be tested,” you say, “but I am certain that it would be effective for use on a larger scale.”

“We never discussed this,” Gearë hisses, but in the dead silence that falls, her voice is clearly heard.

“You—” Curumo’s chair falls over as he stands. “What you’ve created is an abomination.”

“Mairon, this—”

You’ve managed to render your lord speechless, and you would be proud if not for the horror written plainly on his face.

“No,” he says. “I will not use such things, under any circumstance.”

“Why not?” you ask.

“I will not consign anyone to such a horrible death,” Aulë says. “Though it may be a war that we fight, we are not—without morals.”

You have no good retort except one: Melkor would never say such a thing.

“I apologize for overstepping,” you say, instead, though it burns you, to be subject to this ignominy.

“That’s quite alright,” Aulë says, with a wane smile. “But Mairon—all of you—this information stays here.”

You nod, of course, say that you will burn all your papers and destroy your apparatus, but it is a lie. You lie to your lord’s face and you expect him to know, you expect him to say: you can hide from your peers but not from me; you expect him to demand the truth of you but he does not.

He says nothing. He says nothing.

He believes you.

You feel a laugh bubbling up inside you, though you wait until you’re safely within your workspace that you let it loose.

You lied to your lord, and he believed you.

What other lies does he believe?

You thought—you thought—

You are but a maia, hardly a powerful one at that too, and you have deceived your lord.

You can’t stop laughing, but it’s bitter now, bitter and harsh. You thought—naively, you rebuke yourself—that perhaps your lord could see you for who you are, that perhaps he already knew, but now you know differently.

He remains ignorant.

There is only one who knows you for who you are, then. There is only—Melkor. He would not reject this, you know. He would not be afraid.

He would know what it takes to get what you want—to _win_.

You pack your apparatus, along with all your notes in a box. You might’ve taken it to the forge, or else an isolated rocky outcrop to burn, but no. You will not burn your creation, not when it is something you know will work.

Already you are thinking of next steps—you need to be able to mass produce it, you need to understand the mechanism of how it works in the body before you can research a more efficient gas, you need to test it.

You go to your lake.

You are aware, you are so acutely aware of the implications of your actions. You know what it means to give such a weapon to your lord’s enemy.

You know this is treason, though you do not care.

You would give all your works to him, if he would appreciate them.

“Hello?” you yell, contending with the winds. “I have a gift.”

“No need to yell,” Melkor says, from behind you.

You turn, sharply, the metal and glass in your box clanking.

“This is for you,” you say, holding out your box.

He looks amused.

“And what might this be?” he asks.

You explain, placing the box down.

“The look on my brother’s face will certainly be worth it,” he says, with a laugh. “To see his element used against him.”

“You might not have to imagine,” you say.

“Why, Mairon,” he says, caressing your cheek, “are you asking me to fight my siblings?”

“I don’t care,” you say. “I just—want my ideas to be useful. I want—to be useful.”

He tilts your chin up.

“Oh Mairon,” he says, with a sigh. “You deserve so much better.”

You agree. You do deserve better than being insulted by your peers, being looked down upon, your designs dismissed.

“I would give it to you,” he says. “At my side, you would be respected. You could be great.”

He’s close to you now, so close you could lean forward and—

“Will you come with me?” he asks. “Will you—be mine?”

“I—” You stare into his eyes, deep and endless, as your mind blanks.

He holds your face with both hands, gently, and presses his lips to yours. When he steps back, you want—to pull him back, to be held, again, but you don’t do that.

“I need—to think. I need time to think,” you say, when your mind begins to work again. You can’t just throw away everything you already have like that, even though it’s not all you want. It’s not a small decision, to change allegiances, even among the maiar at Almaren—least of all defecting to Melkor.

“Of course,” he says. “When you come to me, I will have no doubt from you, no second guessing.”

You nod, jerkily.

“I will see you soon,” he says, picking up the box. A pause. “Have you considered phosgene?”

You hadn’t. But it will be the first thing you research.

In your fervour, you hadn’t considered what good your research would do when Melkor was outside the world.

* * *

Gearë no longer talks to you. You discovered that rather abruptly when you turned to ask her where she placed the spearheads, and she deliberately turns away from you, ignoring your question.

Well. That is unexpected.

No matter. It’s not a great loss, though you wonder how you’ll divide work up now that none of your teammates seem to like you.

Besides, if you’re on your own, perhaps you’ll have an opportunity to test out—phosgene, was it? Though you don’t have anyone to test it on.

You wonder if any maiar will be your test subject and yet not tell your lord—you doubt it.

“Why isn’t Gearë talking to me, do you know?” you ask the blonde maia, when you get a chance.

“Because you’re insensitive and she’s mad at you,” she snaps.

Is she still angry about Angwë? You thought she would’ve gotten over that already.

You thank her and decide to talk to Gearë when you have time.

The opportunity doesn’t come for several weeks, which you spend holed up in your workspace. You’ve been experimenting with the production of phosgene, rather carelessly, if you’re being honest. Anyone could walk in and see what you’re doing.

To be fair, that’s the way it is in much of Almaren: everything is open, and the only closed doors are for safety. The idea that you might want to deliberately conceal something is—nigh unthinkable.

You have something to alert you, yes, a snippet of song at your door which tells you when it’s been opened, which is the extent that most maiar are willing to go—it can be dangerous, to be startled in the forges.

But there’s no way to keep people out. 

You wonder if, perhaps, it might be prudent to use what you’ve discussed with Melkor to keep your space unintended upon.

It shouldn’t be difficult to modify _stopping maiar from exiting_ to _stopping maiar from entering_.

In the end, you attach a piece of metal to the door and door frame, which prevents the door from opening.

A _lock_ , you think you’ll call it. It’ll stop some sorts of physical movement, but not all movement—one could easily shed their body and cross the threshold, though to do so would be needless work.

There is, of course, song. You’ve sung snippets of it with Melkor, and from what you can tell it _works_. But you’re not quite ready for that, not here.

You catch Gearë strolling in the new garden, the one Melkor had changed. Lady Yavanna had to pull up the whole thing, and plant it anew. It had never been the same—leaves grew slightly too wild, and new species appeared unbidden.

“Gearë!” you call, and she stops and turns, but doesn’t answer you.

You’d thought it might be awkward for her to ignore you in public, and you were right.

Quieter, then: “why are you mad at me?”

“Why” —she takes a deep breath— “do you genuinely not know?”

“I mean—”

“You go behind my back—I trusted you when you said you wanted this secret—and you don’t _tell me_ beforehand—I thought we were working together—and now everyone thinks _I_ had a role to play in your weapon.”

“That’s—unfortunate,” you say, thinking of credit given to the wrong person. “I’ll tell them you had nothing to do with it.”

“Please don’t talk to me again,” she says. “I want nothing to do with you. After Angwë, after this—”

For a moment, you’re confused, then—of course you knew this would happen; this is all your worst nightmares come to life; of course they would reject you if they knew of what you truly thought, what you truly wanted.

Of course they’d all refuse to have anything to do with you.

Of course they’d hate you.

You don’t know why you expected any differently.

* * *

Your lord summons you to his study.

You expected it would be something to do with the weapons crafting, that you were summoned alone because you didn’t stay in the same workspace as the others, but you’re wrong.

You’re the only one there, just you and your lord.

“Mairon, will you sit?” Aulë asks.

You sit. You can’t think of a single reason why he might want you here, alone.

“Is this—”

He holds up a hand and cuts you off. You stay silent.

“A few days ago, one of your peers came to me and said they would no longer work with you,” he says.

“Was it Gearë?” you ask. “I know she’s refusing to talk to me, which really isn’t debilitating—I can—”

“No,” he says. “In fact, all of them said something to that effect, though only one said anything so directly.”

“What? Why would they say such a thing?”

“Mairon,” he says, sorrow and sympathy in his eyes, “I would like to ask you to leave the group.”

You laugh, startled.

“What will they do with only three of them?” you ask.

Your lord looks at you.

“Angwë is returned,” he says, evenly. “That was weeks ago.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” he says.

You hadn’t noticed. In fact, you don’t think you’ve talked to anyone for some time, now.

“Mairon, you are skilled, and I know this may be difficult for you, but I can’t ask my maiar to work with people they aren’t comfortable with.”

You can hardly tell him _no_ , now can you?

“Very well,” you say. “I will no longer count myself as part of the weapons group.”

He claps you on the shoulder.

“There are many other things that need doing,” he says. “There’s no shame in it.”

“I know,” you say, with a smile. “I only wish to serve you as best as I can.”

He looks relieved. He believes you, then. You hadn’t thought yourself so convincing a liar, but then again, you’ve been lying as long as you’ve existed here, in this world.

“Good,” he says. “I look forward to seeing what you make.”

You smile, and leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aule: doesn’t let Mairon commit war crimes.
> 
> Mairon: how could you do this to me :(
> 
> for the unaware: chlorine gas was first used in wwi, and using chemical weapons is, according to the geneva protocol, illegal


	9. Of choices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A final schism.

You were right. You were right.

Somehow that knowledge doesn’t bring you any pleasure.

You wait for the self loathing you’ve come to expect—the tide of _you are wrong to think like this, you are wrong to want this, you are wrong for being who you are_ to wash over you—but it doesn’t come.

You’ve believed, for so long, that it’s you who is wrong, that it is you who must hide your true self and pretend to be like one of them.

But you think of Gearë, and you think of Curumo, and you think of Angwë, and you think of the maiar who spend their days at play, and you think: _do I truly want to be like them?_

Is that really what you want?

No. No. The answer is no. Of course not.

Why would you want to be less than what you could be? Why would you want to be content with what you have?

Why should there be something wrong in wanting better? In wanting to _be_ better?

They would stifle you and for what? They would make it harder for themselves to achieve their goals and for what?

Is a decisive victory not worth it? Is it not far more cruel to fight a war for ages for the sole purpose of following rules you set out for yourself, rather than to win no matter how?

Of course you can’t ask these questions, not to your lord and not to your peers.

They would scorn you; they would hate you; they would cast you away.

But you’ve always known that, and you’ve always tried to avoid that, no matter how much you wished you were wrong.

You were right. You are right.

It doesn’t hurt any less.

* * *

You’re angry, still, angry at what has been said, but you control yourself. It'll do no good letting the whole world know how affected you are—it’ll do no good letting Aulë know.

So you stay in your forge, and you experiment with your own weapons.

A large hammer, you think, large enough to crush anyone beneath it. Large enough to crush all those you hate. To be able to watch Angwë crushed by the rock, to see Curumo with his skull cracked in and struggling to breath—

A rustle of paper.

There isn’t supposed to be a breeze.

You grip your awl—you’ll stab your intruder if need be.

You turn—and relax.

“You aren’t supposed to be here,” you say to Melkor.

He’s leafing through your notes, the ones on mithril alloys.

“Thought I’d visit you at work,” he says. “I’ve never seen you like this.”

“Yes, because I’m in the middle of Almaren,” you say.

“Concerned for me?” he asks, teasing. “I never knew you cared.”

“Only for what my lord might say if he saw me with you,” you retort.

“Oh, yes, I’m sure,” he says. “Are you afraid he’ll reject you?”

You try—and fail—to hide a flinch.

Softer, he says: “what happened?”

“Nothing you need to be concerned about,” you say, somewhat stiffly.

He ponders that for a moment.

“Will you come with me?” he asks. “I want to show you something.”

You nod.

He brings you to a mountain, near the northern bounds of the world. It stands, tall and jagged—solitary.

“That’s not supposed to happen,” you say, somewhat accusatory. “Tectonic plates don’t work like that.”

Melkor laughs.

“They don’t,” he says. “But why be constrained by things such as that? There is much more we can do, laws of the world be damned.”

“Did you make this?” you ask.

“Yes,” he says. “Rather recently, actually, which is why Aulë hasn’t noticed.”

“Why did you bring me here?” you ask.

He sits near the peak of the mountain, on a flat surface minimally covered by snow. There’s a sheer drop to one side, thousands of feet to the hard surface below.

“Will you sit?” he asks.

“You do, next to him. The air here, so high, is cold, and you’re hardly dressed for the weather.

He pulls out—is that a picnic basket?

“Did you bring me here for a picnic?” you ask. You’re not in the mood for this.

Melkor shrugs, pulling out a bottle of wine and a cake.

“I never knew the void had catering,” you say, flatly. “Or do you have ovens there, too?”

“That, I believe, is—how did you phrase it? Ah, yes: nothing you need to be concerned about.”

“You’re mocking me.”

“Teasing. There _is_ a difference.” A pause. “Have some wine.”

“Why did you bring me here?” you ask, again, but you take the glass he hands you.

“I thought you might need a change of scenery. Something to take your mind off whatever happened.”

You wish you could tell him. But—what is it, that stops you? Loyalty, to peers that don’t like you, and a lord that doesn’t appreciate you?

You stay silent, and eat the cake.

“Are you cold?” Melkor asks, after some silence. “You’re shivering.”

So you are. You hadn’t noticed.

“Yes,” you say, haltingly. “I suppose I am.”

“Come here,” he says, and wraps you in his thick cape.

It’s soft, warm, and—you’re pressed against him. You lay your head in the crook of his neck, and he pulls you closer, until you’re sitting in his lap, snuggled in his arms.

“This is—hardly proper,” you say. “I really shouldn’t—”

“What are you afraid of?” he asks, so close you can feel his breath.

Many things, but you don’t want to leave.

“Did you bring me here because I would get cold and hug you?”

The thought springs to mind unbidden.

“What? No!” he says.

“Are you lying?” You don’t go anywhere though.

“I wouldn’t lie to you,” he says. “I won’t lie to you.”

A pause.

“You are far too important to lose.”

“Will you tell me what is bothering you?” he asks. “I hate to see you so unhappy.”

You pause. Yet after all, why not? Why shouldn’t you tell him?

“Do you remember, when I said I was making very important jewellery?” you ask.

He nods.

“Well, I lied. But you know that. Truth is, it was weapons, with me and four others. And now, I’m not a part of that team anymore. My lord asked me to leave.”

“Was it because of the gas?”

You nod, tersely. Melkor scoffs.

“Aulë, he has so much potential, and yet he keeps limiting himself—and his maiar. And for what? Is knowledge not a noble end? Is he _afraid_ of you? But then again, he wouldn’t know _greatness_ if it stood in front of him.”

You stay silent, comfortable that you know, very well, what greatness is—in fact, you are sitting on him.

* * *

The mountain, of course, is flattened as soon as your lord hears word of it.

You lie, of course, to your lord; you tell him: _I wish only to see the works that Mar this world destroyed; I wish only to create beauty in this world; I wish only to_ serve.

And you tear down the mountain, stone by stone, in tandem with your lord, but you claim the rocks that you sat on, silently, and bury them deep, where no others will touch them.

They’re yours. No one gets to take them from you.

And night after night you dream of your hill, lumpy and asymmetrical, and you wake with an ache in your heart.

You go to your lake, but it only reminds you, time and time again, that this, too, will be taken from you one day. Perhaps it will be Aulë who rips the rocks apart. Perhaps it will be Ulmo whose waters destroy it. Perhaps it will be by your own hand that you destroy what you love.

The lake is different now, not the same as the first time you visited. The chunks of rock that litter the bottom have moved—old rock toppling over or worn down, and new rock falling from the shores. The peninsula is half drowned, much thinner than it was before, and shorter too. And though you could not say by how much, the sharp edges are smoother, worn down by water and time.

You tell Melkor about your fears, and he tells you: “of course they will destroy that which we love and call it good. Of course they will try to take everything from you, and say it is part of the plan, that it is no more than you deserve, that the world is better for it.

“But they will not take from you who you are, though they tell you to be content, though they tell you to accept the world as unchanging, to accept yourself as unchanging.

“And time and time again, they will do this, and they will learn nothing from it.

“Things will change and cease to be. Accept this, for am I, too, not a part of this world, as tightly entwined as my siblings are?”

“Then Almaren—” The implication hits you, hard.

“Will one day cease to be, too,” he says. “The world will not remain like this, no matter how much it is wanted. It cannot stay like this, not in a world with my song.”

You think of your lake; you think of his garden; you think of yourself.

You think of him.

You almost pray, then, for him to be a constant in your life, for him to never leave you.

But you don’t know who to pray to.

Time passes. The more things change, the more things stay the same.

You spend your days in your lord’s halls as though nothing has happened, though you retreat to your own private rooms whenever possible. No one stops you, and no one says anything, so you take that as implicit permission to stay there.

You can’t settle for simply making jewellery anymore, so instead you turn to learning everything you can: how to make needles for sewing, and cast iron gates, and how best to sing rock into obedience.

Then you turn to improvement: you research how to best heat a forge with minimal fuel, and how to cast more tools at once, and how to make things last longer.

They flock to you, your peers, those who were always weaker than you and those who are stronger than you alike. They come to you for help, whether it is to forge fine silver chains for jewellery or to cast bronze statues of enormous proportions without air bubbles.

You are far from the only mentor in your lord’s halls, and you are far from the best, but you are respected, and you tell yourself to be content.

You are not.

But, without doubt, you become one of, if not the best crafter. Your inventions are used across Almaren, replacing everything of lower quality, and they come to you, your peers, to ask you to make things, to ask you to take a look at how to improve things.

Your name is on the lips of every maia, but you never forget you were once nobody, one of many smiths, nameless and—nothing. You never forget the millennia you spent labouring in the forges, the blood and sweat you shed to get here, how you clawed your way up and fought for everything you have.

They call you gifted, now, blessed by Ilúvatar, as though it was he who gave you your skills, as though you never spent time watching your fellow maiar work with envy and _want_ , as though you, too, spent all your days playing and still managed to achieve all this, as though you have much innate power to speak of.

Even now, it still isn’t quite enough.

You’re not the best, not yet, and there’s something missing, some vision that you’re lacking, some purpose.

You thought you would be satisfied, so close to the top. You thought this was what you wanted.

You’re afraid that, maybe, it isn’t.

You continue keeping tabs on your fellow maiar, as your lord once asked you to, but then maiar start disappearing. You know who’s behind it—he had all but confirmed it, anyways, and that lack of a final _yes_ annoys you but you deal with it—and you know what he’s doing, and he doesn’t ask you not to say anything, but you don’t, anyways.

If they want to be Melkor’s, why shouldn’t they be allowed to do so?

At this point, though you don’t dare admit it, there’s nothing you would do to hinder him.

You don’t say anything to your lord, and he doesn’t come asking.

You wonder if he even knows that his maiar are disappearing. There aren’t many, of course, one or two here and there, something that’s likely happening all across Almaren. Orfan disappears and you wonder if he’s finally gotten what he wants, and if it’s what he expected.

If you left, would Aulë even know? Would he care if he did? Ulmo managed to win Ossë back but would Aulë even bother to try?

No, you think. He wouldn’t bother. Not for you.

You try to ignore the bitterness that comes with that, and you turn back to your work, though it provides little distraction.

And in secret, you continue your research into shifting things. Your work with weapons had distracted you, kept you away from that desire to shift your own shape.

And after years, you succeed with plants. It stays alive, the geranium that was aloe vera, for months after you shift it, until you forget to water it and it dies.

Animals are next. But unlike plants, those results cannot be so easily hidden, and you pause your work there, at least for a time, until you can find somewhere to dispose of the carcasses.

You keep talking to Melkor.

He’s—somehow, you don’t ask for details—managed to get actual experimental trials on your prisoner hypothesis. You detail a physical space, to trap physical bodies—stone walls and iron bars, chains wrapped around limbs to prevent movement, dim lighting and winding corridors to confuse.

He invents a way to translate the power in songs into the physical world, with etched symbols in swirling patterns and rare materials combined just so, binding and drawing power from the world, staying long after the wielder has gone, and you develop it, testing combinations of symbols and materials and times of day, formulating an internally consistent system to use them.

It’s exciting, it’s intellectually stimulating, it’s rewarding—it’s everything you’ve wanted from your work. It’s that spark missing from your work in Almaren; it’s the idea of walking a path no one has gone down before, of creating something entirely new.

But you hang onto the hope that you could have that in Almaren too, that you can be happy here.

* * *

The position of forgemaster does not have a fixed recipient. Unlike Eönwë, who is and will always be Lord Manwë’s herald, your lord does not have one maia oversee his halls. The forgemaster changes, every few hundred years, usually alternating between some of the craftsmaiar, and rarely going to some departmental overseer, like the head of mining.

If it was up to you, you would hear nothing of it until your lord announces his choice, but rarely are you so lucky.

No, your lord’s halls—and beyond—are abuzz with gossip and speculation as to who will be chosen.

It’s a three step process: first, nominations for the role, where any maia of Aulë can suggest another for the role. Then, the ten maiar with the most nominations are placed on a ballot, and votes are cast. Finally, your lord chooses—not always, but often, the winner of the most votes, and never someone not on the ballot.

It’s not something you pay attention to. The result’s impact on you is minimal, especially now, and the more you think about it, the more you—want. The more you want to be chosen, the more you want your lord to see everything you’ve done not only for him but for the whole of Almaren, too.

Do you not deserve it?

But you tell yourself not to get your hopes up—you remember what it was like to fail, when your design for the Lamps was rejected.

You look back at that with a kind of fondness, the recognition that it was simply a starting point, and a growing sense of disgust—were you truly so useless, back then, so unable to design anything of value?

“You’ll definitely be nominated,” Carr tells you. You haven’t really been talking to many people—other than Eönwë—ever since Gearë started ignoring you, but you’re known Carr for a long time, now, and she initiates conversations, sometimes.

“Do you think so?”

“No one else has, well, become such a vital part of life here in such a short time,” she says. “Besides, you’ve never held the position, and the reason why it’s a rotational position is to give everyone a chance.”

A pause.

“I mean, even though you aren’t the most approachable, or really, the most _friendly_ , you’re definitely skilled.”

You scoff, slightly.

“I mean it,” she says. “I can’t imagine anyone coming to you for romantic issues, or arguments between friends.”

“I suppose not,” you say, but you don’t say that you don’t _want_ to solve those problems.

Time passes. Nominations close, and true to Carr’s words, you’re one of the nominees.

You try to ignore it, but you can’t.

You want the position, you want the recognition, you want the acknowledgement of the work you’ve done and continue to do more than you’ve wanted anything else before.

But you don’t say a word.

Wanting like that isn’t looked upon kindly here, in Almaren—the Valar hardly looked kindly on Melkor declaring himself Lord of the world—and you haven’t forgotten what happened the last time.

You would pray, but you don’t know who: not your lord, not Ilúvatar—there is only you.

* * *

The nominees campaign—they go around talking to maiar; they make grand promises of understanding and compassion and aid when it is needed. It’s not a mandatory step, and, in your opinion, rather useless.

You’ve never been swayed by whatever is said—the actions of the nominees that you’ve observed in the past was more than enough to settle your doubts and far more telling that simple words.

You don’t bother to campaign. What you’ve done for your lord, what you’ve done for Almaren will be more than enough to speak for you.

You suspect, though in fewer words and more abstraction, that you have an ulterior motive, one that eludes even you: if you campaign, and you lose regardless, it will be an indictment of your skill and ability, and that is nothing you can cope with.

~~(and if you do not campaign, if you do not make an effort, you can blame that rather than something innate)~~

You never expected—though you had hoped as you never hoped before—to win.

You deliberately stay away from the announcement of the results, trying to distract yourself with other applications of your chlorine producing machine.

It doesn’t work, though, and your thoughts keep straying to what’s happening outside, and you nearly electrocute yourself.

That would be an awkward way to disembody yourself.

The moment you step outside of your room, you’re swarmed by maiar congratulating you.

Your heart pounds.

“Did I—was I—”

“Yes, yes, you silly maia,” Carr tells you, squeezing her towards you. “And you weren’t even there to hear the announcement.”

“I suppose I must’ve lost track of time,” you say, though that’s far from the truth.

Gearë, somewhat to your surprise, was second to you in number of votes. You suppose that perhaps her campaign had reached many maiar.

You spend the next few days in a haze.

Everything you make comes out in a twisted, unusable lump of metal.

You can’t concentrate.

Your lake helps, and Melkor doesn’t show up, but deep down you’re grateful for that.

It’s after one such trip to the lake that you find the forges empty. That’s very rare, except for—celebrations.

You feel your heart sinking, though you don’t give shape to your thoughts.

It would appear that you’re late to the party.

There’s maiar gathered in a huge crowd, around—is that Gearë?

“Finally time you showed up,” Carr says. “Gearë was just named forgemaster half an hour ago.”

Ah.

So you were right, though you hate it.

“Best go congratulate her,” Carr says.

You nod, and head towards the crowd of maiar, who try to make way for you.

“Congratulations,” you say to Gearë, with as much grace as you can manage.

“Thank you,” she says with a smile. “I _am_ grateful for this opportunity.”

“I’m sure you’ll fill the role fantastically,” you say.

Then she’s swept away to talk to another maia, and you step to the side, fighting down the disappointment inside you.

You take a glass of wine from the hastily assembled table of food, and you don’t leave the room, lest they notice your less than stellar response.

By the end your cheeks hurt from smiling so much, and you could take a knife and stab every single maia in the room.

You stay to help tidy up, though, fighting back thoughts of: _what are you doing this extra work for_?

You need to talk to Aulë.

You told yourself you wouldn’t be disappointed, and you took whatever steps were necessary to avoid the bitter well of failure and shame, but it doesn’t work.

It still gnaws at you like a wild animal, caged between the bars of your ribs, demanding to be known, demanding to be set loose.

It still pounds in time with the beating of your chest, the mantra of _not enough_ that you thought you’d pushed aside.

It still whispers to you in a voice so like Melkor’s: _why stay? why limit yourself? why serve a lord who cares not for you? why work so hard and gain so little in return?_

You need to speak to Aulë if only to rid yourself of the anger and hatred that grows inside you, slowly, slowly.

(it has been building for years and years, slowly festering inside you)

He’s not in the forges, nor is he in Yavanna’s halls. He’s not speaking to the other Valar, nor is he pacing his favourite lake.

His office, then. That’s just about the only place you haven’t looked, and he is there, door opened entirely.

You knock, and wait just outside.

“Mairon!” Aulë looks surprised to see you. “Come in and sit down.”

You walk in, and sit on the closest chair. You remember the last time you were here, when he—when he—you won’t think of it, not your other humiliating failure.

“How are you?”

“Good,” you say, “thank you.”

“What can I help you with?”

In the moment, all your practice seems to have been for nothing.

“I was hoping you could tell me what I need to improve,” you say.

“Is this about Gearë being named forgemaster?”

“Yes,” you say. “She’s an incredible maia, and more than capable, and I was hoping you could tell me how to—be more like her.”

“I hope you’re not disappointed,” he says.

“I’m not disappointed,” you say.

“Good, good,” Aulë says.

“I was just wondering why.”

He sighs.

“Mairon,” he says, “it wasn’t an easy choice, believe me. You’ve been such a diligent, hard worker, and your inventions have truly, truly been an asset to the whole of Almaren.”

_Why not me, then_? you think but don’t say. You know it’ll come out accusatory.

“The thing is, Mairon” —he’s trying to choose his words carefully here, and though you do the same, it irritates you, because does he think you can’t take the truth or is he trying to make excuses?— “the role and responsibilities of forgemaster require—a great deal of interaction with others. And I know that’s not something you particularly relish doing, nor, shall we say, is it your particular strength.”

You almost laugh out loud.

That’s it?

Because you’re not a _people person_ , you’ve been denied this?

“I understand,” you say.

“Mairon,” he says. “You don’t need to be the best at everything, nor do you need to go against your nature to try and master something as a point of pride.”

“I know,” you say. “I simply wanted to help, as best as I can.”

“Thank you,” Aulë says. “I do appreciate it.”

You hadn’t thought him capable of lying, but then again, there’s plenty you don’t know about him.

“Thank you,” you say, and leave.

* * *

Later, you will look back and think of that moment as the breaking of your bond. Later, you will tell yourself it was when Aulë told you that despite everything you’ve done it isn’t enough, that you knew you had to leave.

But for now you mull over what is to be done.

You were a fool, for thinking you could be happy here. You were a fool for refusing Melkor.

Will he still have you now?

Do you dare leave?

If you do not, you will not be able to control yourself.

Is it wrong to seek your own happiness? To leave what makes you desperately unhappy? Aulë had said, so long ago, that all joy is holy, and must it damn you?

That a maia should seek to switch allegiance is not unheard of.

You could do it.

Must you stay? When did Aulë’s claim on you become a fetter?

There are things in this world that are inevitable. This—what you choose—is not one of them.

You were never meant for Melkor, after all.

But you make your choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you may have noticed that i've changed the chapter count once again and it's because i'm... second guessing the direction i want to take this fic. here are the options please help and tell me which you'd prefer (either in the comments or drop a message on tumblr!)
> 
> 1) stop at the destruction of the lamps—there would be 2 more chapters and an epilogue, all of which are written. later events might get their own fic, but that's a huge maybe.  
> 2) stop at the end of the third age—there would be at least 8 more chapters, but most of them are unwritten and i soon might not have time/motivation to write.


	10. Of allegiances and lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A decision is carried through.

Utumno is much easier to find than you expected. You suspect Melkor isn’t trying to hide from you.

Or, that no one else so much as guesses that Melkor might be present in Arda, once again, and you know what you’re looking for.

The northernmost mountain range lies in the shadow of the lamps, where only light from the southern lamp can reach, and dimly at that too. From a distance, the mountains look identical to the southern range, like mirror twins, but as you draw closer, you see that they are not.

The rock is gouged in places, with new ravines and shelves; the peaks are somewhat rounder and beneath them are piles of rubble, from falling stone; there are places where the surface has collapsed, forming sinkholes of sorts.

They’re rare, the changes, and few people come here with enough knowledge to tell. But you remember watching their shaping, memorizing each rise and fall, as you sang with your peers, and dreamed of what you might do.

An entrance into the mountain is harder to spot, and it’s a careless maia who gives it away, pacing on the stone shelf, bored. You don’t recognize them, but it’s easy enough to disable their body, and leave them just inside the door.

The hallway is winding and dimly lit by sputtering torches. They cast strange shadows around you. Here and there the floors are uneven, and the walls are jagged and sharp, widening and narrowing as you go.

There are sounds, too, of chittering and clacking and squelching movement, some from nearby halls you can hear but not see, and others—within the walls.

You walk for what seems like ages, and the hallway twists and curves but never ends and never comes to a crossroad.

You wonder if this is his doing. You wonder if you should’ve asked for a map.

You stop before a set of pitch black doors, towering above you. Should you knock? But when you touch the door, they glide open, without a sound.

Inside is Melkor’s throne room, carved from the earth and not built, with columns of stone and arched ceilings. He sits at the end, on a throne upon a raised dais.

You walk, your footsteps echoing loudly. You stop.

“Why have you come?” he asks.

“You asked, once, that I be yours. You said, once, you would have me willing or not at all.

“I’m here now.”

A pause. You’ve prepared this, though you’re not really sure how it’s meant to go.

“I give myself to you. Everything I am, everything I will be, I give to you.

“I swear my allegiance to you, from this moment henceforth until the breaking of the world or my unmaking. I swear to serve you, to obey you, to—love you, to the best of my ability, if you will hold my oath, if you will have my oath, if you will have—me.”

“So it is,” Melkor says, and your oath settles around you like a cloak, like a cool embrace on a warm day.

He doesn’t make any vows in return—everything he ended to say, he’s said before.

He descends the dais and stops before you.

“Stand,” he says. You do.

He cups your face in his hands, murmurs, “I never thought this day would come.”

A pause.

“Let me show you around,” he says.

“Oh, so this isn’t just a hallway and a room?” you ask, lightly, still shaken from your oath.

“Of course not,” he says, mock offended. “I knew you were here, and why risk you getting lost?”

“You—really?”

“You didn’t need to hit my door guard quite so hard.”

“They were standing outside in plain sight.”

A pause.

“I _will_ show you around,” he decides, “but first, a present.”

You barely have time to react before he sings, like a force of nature, pressing and insistent, dissonant and unstructured but never the same, never repeating, constantly reinventing itself, constantly pressing forward—never looking back—like smoke in your lungs and ice against your skin.

He looks at you, and you know, without words, it is your turn to sing.

Your song comes like instinct, a steady rhythm still evocative of ringing hammers, a beat that his song moves to wrap around, but you’re shocked, somehow, when it isn’t the same, not anymore—you harmonize with him now, a constant bassline to his ever changing melody.

You are not Aulë’s anymore. Melkor is your lord now, and you are his.

Something is happening, your song shifting once again, as his twines around you, and the world is sharper, the colours brighter, the sounds louder, until it’s almost too much.

When he stops singing, you stop too, hardly aware of what’s happening, but the world is slipping away from you now, fading to black and—you pass out.

* * *

You wake up with a jolt.

What happened? You remember song, and then a change, and then—

Here.

You’re in bed, a four poster bed made of dark wood, with thick drapes and plush blankets. Your boots are next to the bed, unlaced—annoyance flickers in you—and you get up, itching to explore.

The room is empty, spacious but devoid of any other furniture. The bed takes up less than a third of the space, and the walls are stone, the same stone as the mountain, as though it’s been carved directly into the depths. There’s a fireplace, ashes but no wood, still warm.

A door swings open, and Melkor steps through.

“You’re awake,” he says.

You wave, suddenly conscious about—well, everything.

“Good,” he says. “I thought I had been too hasty.”

“What? What was that?”

“Can you not feel the difference?”

You’d been too focused on your surroundings to notice the change in yourself.

“You gave me a power boost,” you say, the realization dawning. “How?”

“I gave you some of mine,” he says. “Don’t worry, I have more than enough. Besides, you deserve it—what you could do is well worth it.”

“Thank you,” you say, meaning every word. “I don’t know how I could ever—I’m in your debt.”

“Hardly,” he says. “You’re mine, now, aren’t you?”

He means, you think, that you don’t owe him any more than you normally might. You disagree, though you don’t voice your thoughts—you will owe him as long as you have a self.

You’re bound to him now, by more than just the oath that wraps around you, by more than the validation you so desperately crave, by more than his power that threads through yourself and your veins.

You are his.

The thought makes you almost giddy enough to laugh, but you control yourself.

“You said you’d show me around?” you ask.

“Of course,” he says.

Melkor takes you through the twisting halls and elevator shafts, through cavernous halls and cozy corridors, and the maiar you pass—most of them you don’t recognize, but you glimpse a familiar face now and then—step out of your way respectfully.

Well, out of Melkor’s way.

You stop in a balcony of sorts, strategically positioned so that it faces south, offering a view all the way to Almaren, but hidden by the rock.

“What now?” you ask. “I can start reordering your forges immediately, if you will give me the authority—”

“Not yet,” he says. “There’s something else, first.”

“Anything you ask,” you say.

“Stay in Almaren,” he says. “At least for a while. Tell me what you can.”

“You want me to spy for you,” you say.

He nods. “Yes.”

“Of course,” you say. A pause. “Shall I go now?”

You don’t want to leave him, not now, not ever.

“That would be for the best,” he says. “You don’t want anyone getting suspicious.”

“No one will,” you promise. “No one will know anything. Unless—will the power boost be noticeable?”

“I doubt it,” he says. “So long as you don’t give anyone cause to closely examine you.”

You nod.

“Before I go” —you hesitate, not quite sure how far you can push now— “may I—will you kiss me?”

He doesn’t react, for a moment, and you briefly, briefly panic.

He cups your face in his hand, and pulls you close, pressing his lips to yours, and you wrap your arms around his neck, and you think, _I am happy here; I will be happy here_.

“Before you go,” he says, pulling away just an inch, “another request: I would have everyone know of my return. Think of something suitably dramatic to do so.”

You laugh, slightly.

“Does it have to be dramatic?”

“Yes,” he says, perfectly serious. “There’s power in showmanship, in rumours and displays—”

“Wait, wait,” you say. “Is that why you have a unified colour scheme?”

“Yes,” he says.

“Do _I_ have to wear all black now?” The thought rather horrifies you. “Black isn’t really… my colour.”

“Make yourself a new body.”

“I can’t do that!”

“You can now.”

“Oh. Wait. Right.” You laugh, somewhat nervously. “I’d forgotten. But still!”

“Don’t tell me you’ve spent so long not bothering about clothes, only to start caring when it’s something you think I want.”

He’s teasing, so you clutch your hand to your chest in mock offense.

“Must you really be so cruel?”

“Very well,” he says, the perfect picture of magnanimity. “You may choose your own colour scheme.”

A pause.

“It can’t be brown.”

“What!” you exclaim. “But brown’s—”

“No brown,” he says. A pause. “Also no blue. I’m not my brother. Think about it.”

“I will,” you say. “When do I see you next?”

“A month, perhaps,” he says. “Still at the lake.”

“I look forward to it.”

* * *

You go exploring, then. You’ve seen much of the land, back when it was first being shaped, but that had been to watch their creation, with so many of your siblings.

That was back when you still rejected your own desires, when you still lied to yourself saying _it is not a desire for my own power that drives me_.

That was before you knew Melkor. That was before you were his.

How far you’ve come.

You are not the same as you once were, though the land may appear to be.

You go visit a series of sea stacks. You thought they looked weird, at first, and you still do: vertical columns of rock standing in the middle of the ocean.

The light of the lamps is warm, and it’s nothing like your lake. The wind is softer here, not quite as rough, though still loud.

You wander on the beach, without a particular destination, savouring your solitude. Then—someone lands beside you, with a rustle of sand and gust of wind.

You turn. It’s Eönwë.

He’s just about the last person you want to be talking to, right now.

He greets you with a smile, and you force yourself to relax, to imitate his relaxed posture.

“You come here often?” he asks.

“No,” you say. “I just—needed some space to think.”

Some space to be alone, some space to be yourself, without being forced to pretend at emotions you don’t feel, without the question of how to achieve Melkor’s requests.

Eönwë laughs.

“You’re always thinking,” he says.

“There’s a lot to think about,” you say.

“Like what?”

A pause.

“Techniques for gold filigree,” you say.

“I’m sure your lord appreciates your dedication,” he says, clapping you on the back.

 _Aulë hardly appreciates me_ , you think but don’t say. _But he’s not my lord. Not anymore._

“What about you?” you say, abruptly. “What have you been doing?”

He talks about the birds he’s been watching, the tiny chicks he’s seen grow to adulthood and—

“We’re friends, aren’t we?” he asks.

“Yes, of course,” you say. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

“I just—What do you suppose happens to the birds,” Eönwë asks, “after death?”

“Well—”

You’ve never thought about that. The Firstborn Children of Ilúvatar, you know, will go to the care of Námo. The Secondborn, beyond. But animals?

“I don’t know,” you say. “Nothing I suppose.”

Eönwë frowns. You backtrack a bit.

“Do they have souls?”

“Well, yes.” Eönwë says that like it’s so evident that the question doesn’t need to be asked. “Of course they have souls. They have personalities, likes and dislikes, and memories of their own. Why would they not?”

“I don’t spend much time around animals, you know,” you say. “Believe it or not, Lord Aulë and Lady Yavanna do have their differences.”

Eönwë laughs, slightly.

“Then I suppose they go to Ilúvatar,” you say. A pause. “What about plants? Do you suppose _they_ have souls?”

You say it as a joke, but somewhat irrationally, you’re worried that the plants you’ve been experimenting with will complain to Ilúvatar about you—or want revenge.

“You say the most ridiculous things,” Eönwë says, shaking his head with mirth.

“What brought this on?” you ask. “Why wonder about the afterlife of animals?”

Eönwë looks at you, suddenly serious.

“This world is—though it might not appear to be—marred,” he says, slowly. “It may be, physically unblemished, and yet—Discord ran through the Song. What, here in our bliss, might be tainted, might be corrupted?”

You were not touched by the Discord and yet here you stand.

“What has been made lesser by—him?”

You want to say: _that is not true—you are here, and you have been touched by him, and for it you are_ more.

But you don’t say that. You ask instead: “You don’t believe he can do good, then?”

“My lord believes so,” Eönwë says. “My lord has hope.”

Of course Eönwë wouldn’t disagree with his lord, not publicly like this. But you hear his answer in what he does not say. You hear him say: _I don’t believe so_.

He would hate you too, if he knew.

But he doesn’t. And you don’t intend to let him.

“He’s no longer within the bounds of this universe,” you say. “He hasn’t done anything for centuries.”

“I know, I just don’t trust that he’s staying inactive all this time.”

You can’t let him suspect anything.

“I think you should trust your lord,” you say, sharper than you intended. “I don’t think you should presume to know better.”

He looks at you, chastised.

“You’re right,” he says, finally. “I probably overstepped.”

You want to shake him. You want to scream: _can’t you see what I’ve done yet I still stand before you_. You want to shake him until he’s no longer so obedient, so righteous, so _bright_.

You want to drag him with you; you want to see him suffer and struggle with the same self doubt that once consumed you, the same want that claws inside your chest.

You want to see him covered in mud and filth like you once were, the shattered remains of brick at your feet.

You do nothing.

“Thank you for putting up with me,” he says.

“It’s nothing,” you say. “I do enjoy our conversations.”

He grins, and centuries ago you might’ve been blinded by his radiance. You might’ve been flustered that he would share such things with you. You might’ve been caught in his orbit, like a satellite around Lady Varda’s stars.

But now, there is no flutter in your chest, no rush of heat in your cheeks, no giddy smile rising to your lips.

“I’ll see you around,” he says, before launching into flight.

You don’t care anymore—not for him.

Your love— _you_ —belong to another now.

* * *

You find yourself loitering outside Aulë’s study nonetheless. You’re not entirely sure what you plan on doing if Aulë shows up, nor do you know what you want to get out of this.

Do you want him to say something to you?

To notice that you’ve changed allegiances, that you’re no longer his, and to beg you to come back, to fight for you as Ulmo once did for Ossë?

Or to confirm your suspicions that he wouldn’t notice or wouldn’t care, that everything you thought wasn’t imagined but reality?

For—for closure? To say goodbye without him knowing what it is you’re saying?

What do you want?

“Mairon!”

Aulë rounds the corner, with a huge pile of papers in his arms. Almost as an instinct, you go over and take them from him.

“Ah, thank you,” he says, holding open the study door for you.

You wait, as he puts his papers away in drawers and cabinets and shelves.

“Walnut?” he asks, pulling a box of candied walnuts from his desk drawer.

You decline.

“It’s such a surprise to see you here,” he says, conversationally, “especially so soon.”

“Not an unpleasant one, I would hope.”

“No, not at all!”

A pause.

“Well, what can I do for you?”

“I—”

You can’t find what you want to express, much less the words to do so.

“I don’t—I just—”

“Is something wrong?”

“No, of course not!” A vehement rejection. A pause. “I just—needed—I just wanted—”

“Take your time.”

You sit, staring intently at the veined stone at your feet.

You grope, desperately for something to say, something to explain why you’re here.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “I don’t know why I’m here.”

“That’s alright,” Aulë says.

“I should go,” you say, getting up.

Your chair scrapes the ground.

You head for the door.

“Mairon, wait.”

You stop, but don’t turn, your back still to him.

“You know, my door is always open. You _can_ talk to me, if there’s anything you need. Anything at all.”

Would he understand? Would he want you back?

What if you told him?

You could turn back, repent—you could get on your knees and beg him to take you back.

If you listed your sins before him, would he still offer to help?

You could tell him.

“I understand,” you say, addressing the hallway outside. A pause. You turn. “Thank you for humouring me. I don’t know what came over me—I suppose I must not be resting enough.”

He looks at you with concern.

“Don’t work yourself too hard,” he says. “There’s nothing wrong with taking a break every now and then.”

You nod.

“I will,” you say. “Perhaps I’ve been too focused on my work in the forges and ignoring everything else.”

“Take some time off,” he suggests. “Go talk to some maiar and have fun.”

You smile and nod.

“Of course.”

You leave.

* * *

You lock yourself in your room and berate yourself for your stupid decisions.

At least part of what you said to Aulë was true: you don’t know what came over you.

You made your choice—you spent centuries making your choice—and it is not a choice you would take back. Why, then, would you want to tell Aulë?

It makes no sense.

Could it be that there remains something tying you to him, some misplaced sense of loyalty, some bond your oath to Melkor didn’t break?

You’ll ask, or—wait. Telling Melkor that you had a moment of doubt not three days afterwards, when he’d waited for so long and asked for certainty isn’t the best idea.

A more general study, then, though you suspect Melkor’s maiar would not be keen on admitting any such lapses—you wouldn’t.

You feel no doubt, not now, but you know it’s there, hiding somewhere, at least enough to lead you into an ill prepared conversation.

You won’t let it linger for long.

You will do what Melkor—your new lord, and you ought to start thinking of him as such—wants. And you will not hesitate, not again.

You spend the next few days talking to as many maiar as you can. Most of what you speak of is useless as information—debates on merits of maple versus walnut, and such—and there’s plenty of gossip too, unsubstantiated rumours that never quite seem to be true.

There is, however, one that you give slightly more credence to: that Tulkas and Nessa are to be married.

You’ve heard it so many times now that you’ve practically lost count, and reliable sources—mostly Eönwë—are awfully tightlipped about it.

It’s an opportunity, you think. Melkor would probably think it’s fittingly dramatic.

You could, as always, choose the new year’s celebration, but you don’t think Melkor’s quite gotten over the humiliation of Tulkas from the first war, and he’d probably jump on the opportunity for revenge.

And as for what to do… something big, something noticeable—a show of strength, of intent.

The answer, once you think of it, is enlightening. Well, darkening, to be precise: the Lamps.

You thought you’d gotten over it, the humiliation and sense of failure, the first you’d ever tasted, but they taunt you, now more than ever.

They remind you of who you were, that desperate, pathetic maia clutching at scraps of affection and power. They remind you of who you were, and who you refuse to be anymore.

They remind you that once, you were nobody. That once, you were nothing. You could still be nothing.

It’s decided, then: they must be destroyed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic is going to have 1 more chapter and an epilogue!! but, and this is if all goes well, this won't be the last we see of our favourite dark lord to be :)


	11. Of the destruction of the Lamps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lamps are destroyed, and the end of an era.

The Lamps are a source of light, illuminating not only Almaren but the rest of the world as well. But more importantly, they’re a symbol—of victory, of everything that is supposedly good in the world, of the future to come.

They’re astonishingly poorly constructed symbols.

Of course you weren’t the one to design them. You sometimes think about yourself back then, and you feel only embarrassment.

But you remember the design, and you remember the construction with perfect clarity.

You made the small parts: the screws and nails, the nuts and bolts. What no one else was willing to spend time to make.

From a design perspective, they’re very well constructed. But with everything that happened during their construction, they’re rather fragile.

The logistics in Almaren weren’t settled, yet, and miners and smiths and construction workers moved at different rates. They weren’t willing to wait for proper materials when construction stalled, so you were told to make do with what there was. 

You were no one then. All you could do was what you were told.

There was a steel shortage when the rivets were forged, so there were a few batches made of iron. Ore refinery for several batches of nails took too long, so that several batches had slag in them. The cooling system was modified during construction, surrounding only the body of the Lamps and not the base—not a problem, then, but after so many centuries of continued heat, a cold shock would render the material _extremely_ brittle.

This much you explain to Melkor, and he considers it.

You offer him a reproduction of the design, and he accepts it.

You still remember the charts and diagrams, even after all this time, as clearly as if you looked at them yesterday. You spent so long studying them, memorizing them, trying to better yourself even as you told yourself all you wanted was mediocrity.

That past—your past—is not something you need. You only need the future, with its limitless possibilities—and him. In every future you imagine, he is there: your lord, your love, your god.

* * *

“I was thinking,” Gearë says, at a foundrywide meeting, “that perhaps, for the upcoming meeting, we, too, should contribute something.”

“Is jewellery not enough?” you ask.

“It’s _expected_ ,” she says. She’s not deliberately ignoring you anymore—she’s the forgemaster now, and she can hardly be that petty after all—but she tries to minimize how much she speaks to you. “I want to go above and beyond.”

It’s funny she should say that. It’s funny that anyone in Almaren should claim that they’re trying to overstep their boundaries.

“I see,” you reply.

“A new landscape, perhaps,” she suggests. “Or a landmark, so that the occasion can be celebrated, even in the future.”

You can’t let her build it near the Lamps. That would ruin the entire plan, and you can’t have that.

“I was under the impression that all the landscapes in Arda are complete,” you point out. “Where would you put it that wouldn’t ruin the symmetry?”

“Near Almaren,” Gearë responds, almost immediately. “Perhaps slightly north, so there’s space southwards for future construction.”

“That makes sense,” you say. No point antagonizing her further if you’ve already ensured your plan won’t fail.

Gearë asks everyone who wishes to submit a design—to be judged by herself and Aulë—and you don’t like that. If you don’t submit something, it’ll be suspicious, but you don’t have time for this. There’s so much to do still—gather information, plan for the event, communicate with Melkor.

You can’t deliberately, knowingly make something awful, though, so you have to spend effort on a design you know won’t survive for a year, if it even sees more than lines on paper.

Your first conceptual sketches are completely unviable. You burn them as soon as they’re finished—not a landscape but a building, tall and imposing: thick doors and jagged roofs.

You pay a little more attention afterwards, and your final design is soft and gentle, elegant and symmetrical, graceful yet strong lines and everything Almaren consider beautiful.

You hate it. Aulë loves it.

He asks you to help build it—the pond and the rolling hills, beaches and fields.

“Of course,” you say, and you sing rock into your desired shape with someone who is not your lord, not anymore, and you watch other maiar gather around and sign as you work—some of them still nameless—and you remember you were once one of them, and you _hate it_.

You hate what you once were, how deluded, how you thought you could be happy here, how you were ashamed of your very existence. You will never be weak again.

When the wedding setting is done, you look at it and try to feel pride, but all you feel is stifled creativity and your web of lies, so deep that nobody in Almaren knows who you are, not really.

How could they be so blind? Do they really think this is what you want?

You—who was once named Mairon—refuse your name. You are not the maia who had nothing to speak of but a vague comment.

You won’t be Mairon for much longer. The thought makes you almost giddy.

You very nearly have everything you’ve ever wanted, and all it took was throwing Almaren’s rules to the wind.

Ossë regretted his choice, once. You won’t.

* * *

You keep spying. You keep reporting conversations to Melkor. You’re not sure how much of it is useful information, and how much is just an excuse to be together again.

Invariably, you start your report in the throne room, move to a smaller meeting room, and end up in his bedroom conversing about completely unrelated things.

“You never quite told me how you got the results for the imprisonment experiment,” you say.

“Do you want to see?” he asks.

“Of course.”

It turns out that the bottom layer of his fortress has been converted into the designs you finalized together—small windowless cells with stone walls and a thick door, magic woven through the building, and locks too, not the pale imitation you have on your door but with pins and tumblers and keys, too.

“Sometimes maiar stumble upon this place,” Melkor says. “Whether by accident, or deliberately. Those who refuse to serve me are imprisoned here.”

A pause.

“Your contribution has been invaluable.”

You flush red, involuntarily.

“Thank you,” you say, looking around at something you helped design, and it is so much more beautiful than anything you could’ve made for Tulkas and Nessa.

This— _this_ —is what you want to spend your life doing: creating something new, something never before imagined.

You could create something, anything you want to, and you will not be ignored or shunned—no, your contributions are valued here; _you_ are valued here.

Melkor leaves you, then, but you stay there, in the underground tunnels—tunnels built from your design, your thoughts turned into reality. There is solid earth beneath your feet and above you and hemming you in on all sides, but never have you been so free: you could not be more free if you were underneath the skies in the centre of Almaren.

* * *

Tulkas and Nessa’s wedding is to be an extravagant affair, and you’re kept busy making jewellery and other decorative pieces for the ceremony.

You’ve been asked to make bracelets and anklets for Nessa—Tulkas’ jewellery goes to another to make—and that’s in addition to all the maiar asking for rings and necklaces and earrings.

You’ve only ever made Melkor a single bracelet.

That, you decide, needs to be rectified immediately.

Rings, you think, or a dagger, or even a sword.

Does he like swords? Or would he prefer another weapon? You ought to ask.

You will have time for that, soon.

* * *

Tomorrow. Tomorrow. It will be tomorrow.

You’ve done all you can, now: plans made, contingencies created and checked thrive over, logistics coordinated as best as you can, in the middle of Almaren.

Your nerves threaten to overtake you, almost, but you control yourself. You are in control.

The urge to scream amidst the manicured lawn of Almaren grows too strong. Everywhere you turn is perfectly calm: nothing you feel is reflected in the world around you, like none of it is real.

You won’t have to stay here for much longer. Really, you don’t think _here_ will exist for much longer. But you can’t bear another moment.

You go to your lake, and you sit on your rock, the spray of water slowly soaking your shoes.

Melkor isn’t there, which is—you want space, so you should be relieved, but you aren’t. You want him here, because he would understand.

Your lake stands still, on the edge of the world. It has not changed in size, no—but now it looks smaller. You were once content with just this: jagged rock and crashing waves, asymmetrical, the only one of its kind. You were once content to call just your rock your own.

The world is so much bigger than this. There is so much more you could do.

If you look closely, you would see worn down edges and more grains of sand than there were originally. But that isn’t what you look for.

You try to commit this lake to memory, in the knowledge that what you do will ruin it utterly, unmake it—and never again will such a lake exist but in your mind.

Yours and Melkor’s.

You will not return to it again.

In all these years, Aulë never knew about your lake, and—do you dare hope it could be Iluvatar?

That he could—

No.

No.

“Don’t be afraid,” Melkor says, from behind you. “Everything that could go wrong, you’ve already thought of.”

“I know,” you say. “I just—”

It isn’t fear of failure. It’s fear of succeeding.

“You have me,” he says. “No matter what happens.”

“I thought it was the other way around,” you say. “That I’m yours, not—”

He shrugs.

“I know things will be better,” you say. And you believe it: from here on, it will be better.

* * *

The day of the wedding comes.

You array yourself in red silk, the finest you can find, embroidered in gold thread.

You turn heads, not only among Aulë’s maiar but also others. Once you would’ve shirked at that attention—once you would’ve worn nothing but plain beige and brown and hid from everyone’s eyes—but now they look at you and what you think is not _I do not want this_ but rather: _they see me with their eyes but they do not truly_ see _me._

And how you resent them, they who have done nothing wrong but to not know what you do not say.

Oh, how you could laugh.

Do they truly not see what you have become, what you have always been? Are they truly so blind? Have you really fooled them all, duped them so thoroughly that even Aulë and Manwë don’t recognize the traitor they have in their midst?

None of them see you, not really.

As you walk down the cobblestone streets, you wait for the shouts, for the accusations of _traitor_ to be flung at you, to be pulled aside by Aulë or Manwë.

You had thought—you had truly thought that they really knew everything. Oh, how wrong you were.

You pay little attention to the wedding ceremony itself, as lost as you are in your thoughts. Oaths are sworn, with Manwë and Varda in witness, and promises are exchanged—to cherish and to love and to protect. You remember little else.

The celebration afterwards is as loud and joyous as you thought it would be, where laughter and alcohol both flow freely, but you don’t drink. You join in the games, and you converse with all that seek you out.

“Mairon!” Aulë says, boisterously. “I’m glad to see you enjoying yourself.”

“Thank you,” you say.

“I hope you’re feeling better.”

“Of course,” you say, with a smile.

“I took a look at those designs of yours, the ones for the gates,” Aulë says. “They're, well, very unique.”

Gates? You don’t remember—oh. Those gates.

Unique would be the kind way of describing them.

You hadn’t meant for him to see them.

“Ah,” you say. “Well, they’re just some idle sketches, nothing serious.”

“What inspired them?”

Melkor, you could say. The jagged beauty of his halls and rocks; his strength; your love for him. You meant those gates for him, when he could have something other than secrecy; when he, too, can have a physical place in the world.

“Nothing much,” you say. “I simply wanted to—experiment. I’m very fond of experimenting, as you probably know.”

“Yes,” Aulë says. “I know.”

You don’t know what else to say.

“Mairon,” Aulë says, slowly, as though he doesn’t know if this is something he ought to say, “have you seen anything strange recently?”

“Strange?” you ask. Does he suspect? “No, I have not. If I may, why do you ask?”

“It is—nothing more than a doubt,” he says. “I suspect—Melkor may want to wage war once again.”

“I have faith in you, my lord,” you say, though the words nearly stick in your throat. “No matter what happens, I trust you will lead us to victory.”

“Such loyalty,” he says, more to himself than to you. Then: “Mairon, you are a blessing and an asset to my halls. This, I hope, you will not forget.”

“Thank you,” you say. “I am honoured.”

You want to shake him.

You want to scream: _do you not see what I am, standing in front of you?_

You want to tell him: _I am not yours anymore; I have not been yours for a long time_.

You do none of that.

“Ah, but that’s too serious a topic for today,” Aulë says. “Go, enjoy yourself!”

You smile, bow, and leave.

Eönwë comes and seeks you out, then: he’s loud, and boisterous, and surrounded on all sides by admirers and friends alike.

“Mairon!” he says. “You’ve outdone yourself, this time: I’m told you designed everything around us.”

“It was nothing,” you say.

“For someone as talented as you, I’m sure it was simple!” he says.

“Thank you,” you say.

Your conversation is hindered by his entourage, and with a wink towards you, he charms everyone else into leaving.

“Ah, now we can talk,” he says. “Without—the others.”

You remember yourself, centuries earlier, and the memory tastes like rust and bitterness. How had you ever been so foolish? How could you have been so—pathetic?

He’s your friend, now, no matter how many lies there have been and what actions of yours tinge the relationship with disgust.

You talk of nothing much, for some time.

“Would you come with me if I asked?” you ask.

“Go where?”

“I don’t know,” you lie. “Away from Almaren.”

“Sure,” he says. “Did you want to show me something?”

“No,” you say. “Not like that. I guess, maybe—more permanently.”

“Why—why would you want to do that?” he asks, head tilted in confusion.

“I guess I need some space,” you say. You can’t tell him the truth, not now, not unless you want him to try and stop you.

You already know his answer—so why do you ask? Some foolish, desperate hope that you could keep the one person in all of Almaren you might call a friend?

“Away from your lord?” He sounds incredulous.

“No, just away from, well, the bustle and noise of everyone here,” you say. A pause. You need to add: “you know, it’s sometimes difficult to be creative with so many distractions.”

“Oh,” he says, understanding your lie. “Well, if you want me to, I certainly can—not forever, as there’s plenty I need to do still here, but certainly for some time!”

“Thank you,” you say.

He doesn’t understand, but of course he doesn’t.

You were made different.

Later, when things have quieted—the maiar either drunk or too exhausted from their merriment to do anything else—you slip away.

No one follows you.

You meet Melkor by the northernmost lamp.

“Mairon,” he says, as though delighted by your presence. He looks at your clothing. “Have you chosen your colours, then?”

“Red,” you say, “if it is to your liking.”

He looks at you, more closely.

“Yes,” he says, “yes I do think it is.”

A pause.

“Almaren?”

“Does not suspect you will act now.”

“Good.”

Another pause.

“The southern lamp,” Melkor says. “I cannot be in two places at once, so I will entrust that to you. Do not fail me.”

“I won’t,” you pledge.

You skirt around the edges of the world to go south, instead of traversing through Almaren. You have a task to do.

You can’t fly, of course: you were once Aulë’s maia, not Manwe’s, but among Melkor’s maiar there are those who can, those who grew wings or always had them, and it is two of them that brings you south. They remain silent throughout the journey, and you don’t bother to say anything either.

You are not here for a social outing.

They have their instructions, you know, and so do you. 

You arrive at the southern Lamp in time to hear Melkor’s voice, whispering in your ear as though he is beside you: _it is time_.

You sing, loud and with as much power as you can, and you almost don’t recognize your voice. You almost don’t recognize your song.

It sounds like a drumbeat, the echo of a snare drum, constant and steady, but with the subtle variations you know is Melkor: a rich dissonant harmony, constantly pressing forward and never repeating, like the slow breaking of rock into sand, like the slow breaking of the world.

The Lamp shakes once, twice—resisting—but the metal recognizes your touch—it must, after how much of it you forged—and you call upon your lord’s power and you can almost feel him with you, next to you, guiding you, and for a moment you fear it isn’t enough—that only one Lamp will fall, and you will have failed—

And then: it gives way.

For a second everything is silent, but you stand as though electrified, a completely foreign feeling running through your body. Later you will know it is your lord’s domain, signifying a change, a _fall_ —but for now you stand, frozen.

The Lamp topples northward—the stand snaps near the base—the body hits the ground with a shockwave that rocks every bone in your body—fire spills out, burning everything in its path.

It is enough. What you remembered—what you could sing—it is enough.

You are, at long last—if only for this moment—enough. You could cry from relief. You could laugh. You do neither of those things.

You have barely a second to admire the carnage before you need to leave, to distance yourself from what you’ve done.

Your companions bring you north, at your instruction, but this time you do not avoid Almaren.

You are high above them, no more than a speck in the sky.

You aren’t close enough to see everything that’s happening: not the shocked expressions on their faces, the panicked conversations. But you can see their movement, in frenzied circles, in tight knit groups.

They look like ants, or headless chickens, and you resist the urge to laugh, high and hysterical, lest your companions think poorly of you.

You take a moment, then, to find Eönwë, to say a few parting words. But you leave for Utumno, soon, and you go to seek out Melkor

You find him standing over the wreckage of the northern Lamp, and he sees you, and he smiles.

“Oh, Mairon,” he says, fondly, “just think of what else we will accomplish, the two of us.”

And he kisses you, hard enough to bruise, and twines his hands in your hair hard enough to hurt, as the world burns around you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and this (basically) wraps up this fic! stay tuned for an epilogue next week :)
> 
> i do intend on continuing through later ages, but i don't know when that will be.
> 
> thanks for reading!


	12. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A glimpse into Aulë’s mind.

Aulë worries.

He’s been busy, reinforcing what stone that hasn’t been destroyed by the fires of the Lamps and haphazardly piling broken remnants into makeshift barriers, to protect Yavanna’s olvar and kelvar. He’s been busy, consoling his wife and his maiar in turn, and consoling himself too, as best as he can.

His maiar, who are made of rock and fire, have been, for the most part, unaffected by the destruction he thought had been left behind with the first war, but others—Yavanna’s, and Ulmo’s, and Vána’s too, so closely tied to the the living things and streams and the Spring of Arda now destroyed—do not fare as well.

Even so, he’d sought Mairon, remembering how he had so clearly kept track of everyone after the mine collapse. But Mairon was nowhere to be found.

It frustrates—and worries—him to no end.

Mairon had been there, at the wedding—oh how long ago that seemed and how distant the joy—and they’d spoken, and now he is nowhere to be found.

Aulë worries, in the moments he can spare between tending to the broken landscape and tending to his maiar.

Mairon, he can only guess, was caught in the destruction.

Mairon, he fears, went to confront Melkor alone.

For all Mairon has accomplished, Aulë never forgets where he came from. Aulë never forgets the maia that watched him first shape Arda with eager eyes; he never forgets the maia who had watched him make brick as though it contained all the secrets of the universe; he never forgets the maiar who was no one and so, so eager to please.

He keeps an eye on his maiar, wherever and whenever he can. He is not unaware of the similarities between him and Melkor, and he is not unaware that it was his maiar who turned to Melkor in droves.

But Mairon, he had never needed to worry about. Mairon had always been immersed in his work, constantly experimenting and not participating in the heated discussion about Melkor—he never seemed to particularly care about that sort of thing, unlike Orfan who did, and was now gone.

But Aule worries for Mairon, now.

In a quiet moment when he can be spared, Aulë, accompanied by Yavanna, goes to Námo.

Námo is in Manwë’s tent, the two of them conversing quietly.

Aulë steps in, feeling as though he’s interrupting something, but Manwë is as accommodating as always, and steps out to give them some privacy. Yavanna waits outside.

“Is Mairon in your care?” Aulë doesn’t have time for pleasantries.

Námo ponders the question.

“No,” he says. “He is alive still.”

“You must summon Lord Aulë,” Aulë hears Eönwë say from outside the tent—no doubt to Manwë.

“I am here,” he says, stepping out.

Eönwë looks—worse than Aule expected.

“It’s Mairon,” he says, as though he doesn’t understand what happened. “He’s betrayed us.”

“No,” Aulë says. “He wouldn’t do that.”

Eonwe must’ve interpreted wrong. Mairon’s never been good with social relationships, and—

“It is true,” Námo says. “If you would hear Eönwë out.”

Oh. There’s nothing he can say to that.

“I saw him,” Eönwë says. “He told me as much himself.”

Each word pains Aulë to hear.

Eönwë recounts what happened, though each word pains Aulë to hear.

“It isn’t your fault,” Yavanna says, grieving her own creations but something still having the strength to comfort her husband. “Mairon made his choice.”

“He is” —Aulë catches himself— “he __was__ my charge, __my__ responsibility.”

“No longer,” Námo says.

“I should’ve known,” Aulë says, more to himself than any other. “I might’ve known—I should’ve seen what was happening. I should’ve done something.”

And he should’ve. He should’ve seen something, said something; he should’ve known.

But he didn’t.

He didn’t and—was there ever anything to see?

“We are not omnipotent,” Manwë says, “and you are not responsible for the choices of others.”

When did it happen? __How__?

Why hadn’t he noticed?

“What will happen to him?”

Námo looks at Aulë, as though there is something to say, but he remains silent.

He __knows__. Aulë doesn’t ask again.

Aulë sighs, and he sits in silence for some time.

“What I don’t understand is—why?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhhhHHHHHH and this is the end!!! thank you so much for sticking with this fic, and watch out for a sequel coming,,,, uh,,,, sometime in the (probably distant) future.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this](https://masonmerger.tumblr.com/post/178349544939/unconventional-mairon-hc) post, eveningalchemist’s [Seduction to Destruction](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8800321/chapters/20175772) and the many excellent writers and artists in the Angbang community
> 
> Visit me on [tumblr](https://psychedaleka.tumblr.com/) (even though i'm mostly a tma blog right now)!


End file.
